


Follow the darkness 'til it follows you

by Evil_Keshi



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Canon Disabled Character, Cop!AU, Crime Scenes, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Romance, Steve Rogers/Brock Rumlow - Freeform, cop bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-27
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-07-27 04:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7602580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evil_Keshi/pseuds/Evil_Keshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bucky walks out of the car that night, around three in the fucking freezing morning, he wonders to himself why people can't wait until decent hours to murder someone. No, seriously: <i>why?</i> They will get caught anyway, Fury will make sure of that, so would it be that hard for them to plan their murders during the day? After a good night of soundless sleep, when Bucky doesn't have to rely on bad coffee from the police station to actually stay awake?</p><p>Ah. Murderers have never been known for taking police officers' opinions in consideration anyway. Assholes. Tonight, one more person has managed to get on Bucky's bad side (there's a whole crowd there, from his tenth grade math teacher to every single assassin he's managed to arrest with his team.)</p><p>So, to sum it up, here's the situation: murder at the <i>Boys' Boudoir</i> in the middle of the night, Bucky and his coffee, a whole new case to work on. In the cold and the dark. Nothing unusual, yay!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Here I come with a new story, totally different from my last one, involving Cop!Bucky and Tiny!Steve. I really hope that you'll like this new fanfiction of mine, I'm curious to know what you'll think about it. Enjoy! ;)
> 
> Warning: in this chapter, homophobic slurs and behaviour + depiction of crime scene (blood) + Bucky making inappropriate jokes.

  


When Bucky walks out of the car that night, around three in the fucking freezing morning, he wonders to himself why people can't wait until decent hours to murder someone. No, seriously: _why?_ They will get caught anyway, Fury will make sure of that, so would it be that hard for them to plan their murders during the day? After a good night of soundless sleep, when Bucky doesn't have to rely on bad coffee from the police station to actually stay awake?

Ah. Murderers have never been known for taking police officers' opinions in consideration anyway. Assholes. Tonight, one more person has managed to get on Bucky's bad side (there's a whole crowd there, from his tenth grade math teacher to every single assassin he's managed to arrest with his team.)

So, to sum it up, here's the situation: murder at the _Boys' Boudoir_ in the middle of the night, Bucky and his coffee, a whole new case to work on. In the cold and the dark. Nothing unusual, yay!

"Hi Nat," he greets the redhead as he enters the bar, taking in the now deserted dance floor, the wooden bar, the dim lights and the team of bartenders gathered in a corner, all of them looking shocked and even a little scared.

No wonder: a murder in the backyard of a gay bar? If this turns out to be a gratuitous hate crime, Bucky bets every single gay man who has ever entered the Boys' Boudoir will freak out: it could have been them. One of their friends. A lover.

"James," Natasha nods at him. "I was waiting for you before going out to see our corpse. You think you might know him?"

"Oh God, Nat," Bucky tells her with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "Me being gay doesn't mean I know every single gay man of New York."

"Well, I think you will recognise this one," Bruce Banner butts in as he appears around the corner of the bar, the fog quickly forming on his glasses proving that he has just come from outside, from the backyard where a cooling corpse awaits Bucky and his partner.

"Hey doc! Why should I? Is he one of my ex-lovers? Should I shed a tear?"

The forensic pathologist throws a disapproving glare his way, blaming his blatant disrespect for the dead, but Bucky can't bring himself to care on this one: the cold of this chilly April night makes his left arm ache where his prosthetic meets his scarred flesh (token from his time in the army), and his coffee, that wasn't any good before, has gone lukewarm. Gross.

"No," Bruce replies at last. "Come on, both of you. Watch out, there's a step after the backdoor."

Natasha and her grumpy partner follow the doctor outside like good little soldiers and Bucky pays so much attention to the step that he doesn't notice the puddle right after it. One soaked leg later, the young man thinks he could give anything for a warm bath right now - plus some hot coffee. Ah, paradise.

Reality quickly hits him though, as the three of them reach the end of the backyard and the roped off area where Bruce's team of medical examiners is doing its job. Imagination doesn't seem to be a required skills for murderers: as always, the crime scene consists of a dark place, dumpsters, empty bottles of beer and oh, surprise, no one could see anything happening that far in the back, so no witness. Typical.

The corpse itself, however... Well, Bucky suddenly feels relieved that he hasn't eaten anything before coming to work, which has to be the best idea he's had so far this month: even empty, his stomach churns. By his side, Natasha doesn't look affected at all, if not for her lips, reduced to a thin line as she takes in the sight of the dead man lying at their feet. Bruce was right, not that it should surprise them; Bucky does know that guy. Thankfully, he isn't one of his past lovers: first of all, he has never been notified that Brock Rumlow was gay, so there's that (although he's only assuming: one may find himself in a gay bar and still be straight). Also, said Rumlow popped on their radar months ago as an influent member of Hydra, a powerful and shady organisation whose monkey business has even alerted the feds. Even if he had known for sure that Rumlow was gay, that fact alone would have kept Bucky far away from that guy. Which, shame, because Brock Rumlow qualifies as an attractive man, everyone could see that. Or, well, he _qualified_ as attractive, past tense.

"Cause and time of death?" he hears Natasha ask.

"Around two o'clock, slit throat," comes Bruce's answer.

"Didn't notice," Bucky groans quietly as he runs a hand through his half-long hair. "So much blood, I wondered where it might come from."

"On his chest," Bruce points out and ignores him, "you can see this symbol, a skull and six tentacles."

"Hydra," Natasha murmurs, frowning as she adds, "But Rumlow _was_ Hydra. Why would they kill him? He was important."

"Maybe he drew the symbol himself," Bucky shrugs, "Who knows what kind of sick stuff rocks their boat."

"This isn't _Da Vinci Code_ , Bucky," Bruce retorts. "Congrats if you could do this with your throat sliced open, by the way. Also, there is no blood on his fingertips - not on his hands at all, for that matter, so I'd say someone was holding him: people who get slain like this often try to at least put their hands around their neck due to their panic. He didn't do that to himself."

"Yeah, I know," Bucky sighs. "Plus, the symbol is too perfect to have been drawn by Rumlow if he was half-dead already. I was just joking."

"You suck," Natasha chimes in with a glare softened enough to make him understand that she appreciates his (poor) attempt at lightening the mood.

"And I even swallow," he adds in all seriousness, which earns him an elbow in the ribs from the woman.

"Bucky!" Bruce exclaims, scandalised. "Can't you focus just a little, please? And not say anything gross or sexual - or both - for at least ten minutes?"

Golden rule in the police: do not, under any pretext, make Bruce Banner angry. So, Bucky wises up for a second and nods, then mimics locking his trap shut with an imaginary key that he throws behind his shoulder. Satisfied, the doctor speaks up again:

"Actually, the murderer didn't _draw_ the symbol. They carved it into his chest. I suggest you take a closer look."

Both Bucky and Natasha have to fight an unenthusiastic frown at that, none of them eager to approach their faces any closer to the bloody mess on the ground, but they eventually comply and sidestep the large puddle of red around the body. Crouching down, Bruce points a gloved hand to Rumlow's chest.

The man's murderer (or murderers, plural, if Banner was right and one had held Rumlow's hands while another one sliced his throat open) had taken care of removing their victim's shirt, baring his torso; the skull of Hydra's symbol was carved across his pectorals while four of the tentacles spread all over his stomach and ribs, the two at the bottom curling around his navel. Seeing it from afar, Bucky had thought that it was only a superficial drawing made of bloody ink but now, Natasha and he can clearly discern the cuts that run along the tan skin, a little less than one inch deep.

"I guess he was already dead when they did that?" Natasha asks.

"Yes," Bruce confirms. "It's not torture, merely a signature."

"Great..." Bucky interferes. "Now, why they would want Rumlow dead is another question. He knew a lot about Hydra, their members, their tactics, targets, traffics, everything. He made himself indispensable... But maybe he knew too much? Then, killing him for that could only mean one thing: he was planning on betraying them."

"For some reason, I find it hard to believe," Natasha replies, looking thoughtful as she keeps staring down at the body. "As you said, he was essential. We have to consider the possibility that it's only an imitation and not actually Hydra."

"A second organisation nuts enough to carve symbols into their victims?" Bucky sums it up. "Great. As if Hydra alone wasn't enough of a pain in the ass already."

Natasha merely nods, before she adds:

"Let's go back inside, find out what the bartenders know... Probably nothing, but still. Bruce, we'll see you around."

The doctor waves a hand, already focusing back on his task as he picks up some fibres with careful fingers while his assistants take photographs on the crime scene. Natasha leads the way back but Bucky draws the attention to him first as they approach the group of bartenders and he asks with a booming voice:

"Alright, hi there! So, who found the carved pumpkin outside?"

"James!" Natasha hisses into his ear and pinches his arm - the right one, because she likes her nails just fine and fighting the bionic arm would be too much, even for Nat.

The men gathered a few feet away from them eye Bucky with apprehension and even with a little disbelief for some of them, but a young man steps forwards and admits, voice brittle:

"I did."

"Okay," Bucky nods, his face softening as he takes in the poor state of the guy, "then you'll follow me and you'll tell me how that happened. Is there a quiet place we can go to and have our little chat?"

"The manager's office," another one answers with hesitation. "Uh, it's upstairs."

"Are you the manager?" Natasha asks at that, turning her steel gaze his way.

"Not really... The manager isn't here tonight but I'm in charge when he's away."

Bucky leaves Nat with the bartenders she's talking to and gestures the young man who found Brock Rumlow's body to follow him, heading for the stairs and making each step creak in his wake - that is _not_ reassuring. He finds the manager's office in no time, takes a seat behind the desk that stands there and eventually, the other man sits in front of him.

"What's your name?" Bucky asks, still gentle.

The young man, a tall male with fair skin and blond hair with pink highlights, doesn't look too comfortable as the police officer takes a notebook and a pencil out of his pocket to start jolting down every word that will come out of his mouth, but he answers nonetheless:

"Jake Finchley," he reveals before he blurts out, "Are you gonna arrest me?"

"Will you give me a have a reason to?" Bucky shots back as his eyebrows arch up.

"N... No!" the younger man staggers, eyes wide with fear. "I only found Brock, I swear I didn't... I didn't do that!"

"Brock? So you knew him?"

"I..." Jake hesitates for a second, most likely afraid to say too much and get in trouble, then he nods quickly. "Yeah, well, not really? He... he was a regular, that's all. Nice tips, all that..."

Bucky wouldn't say that he's a professional at that since Natasha is way better than him when it comes to detect lies and truths, but he doesn't think Jake is lying: yes, he looks uncomfortable as hell but then again, most people are once they're confronted to the police. His fidgety behaviour doesn't make him guilty - not for sure, at least.

"Okay. So you found him. How? When?"

Jake takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a second, before he whispers:

"It was... I was taking a break, so... Around forty past two? I went in the backyard to light up my cig, then I thought I'd check on the cats' food so I... Uh, yeah, we feed the neighbourhood cats in the backyard, there's a bowl and everything. So I went in the back and I saw... I wasn't sure at first. I thought it was... I don't know. It was dark, so maybe trash bags? But when I got closer, I saw... Brock. And the blood, God, there was so much blood! And his t... throat was... It was... I can't, I'm sorry, I can't. I found him, then I ran back inside and I told Teddy."

"Who's Teddy?" Bucky asks with a frown as he adds the name in his notebook.

"Manager's replacer, he called you guys. The woman with you... She talked to him."

Right. Nat will take care of that one, no need to worry about him.

"Did you notice anything weird when you went out? I mean, besides the corpse, obviously."

" _Obviously_ ," Jake repeats, almost shrieking. "God, no, nothing. There was no one there. Just me and Brock but he... he was already..."

The guy grows silent and loses himself into the traumatising memories of this fateful night, and he jolts on his chair when Bucky snaps his fingers in front of his nose.

"What?" Jake squeals, in mixed fear and annoyance - but mostly fear.

"Show me your hands."

Jake doesn't dare ask more questions, maybe because Bucky sounds dark and dangerous - and yes, he does it on purpose sometimes, because Nat once told him that it looked good on him. Also, it does wonders to impress or shut people up, so he uses that to his advantage.

Bucky scrunches up his nose as he leans forward, tipping his chair in the process, and takes a closer look at Jake's hands. Long fingers, short nails, not a drop of blood on his hands. Also, no stain on his cuffs, save for a pinkish spot of sorts on the underside of his left sleeve. Too pale to be blood and the fabric is dry, there's no way Jake could have washed off any eventual blood and have a dry shirt already.

"What's that?" he asks anyway, just to be sure, as he points to the stain.

"What, this? Uh, a guy bumped into me at the start of my shift, and I had a glass of Kriek in hand, it went over the top. Uh, it's a pink beer, made of cherries."

"Sure," Bucky nods, not too pleased to state that the barman thinks he doesn't know a thing about beer (and okay, he doesn't. Shut up.) "Alright, you can go, but I will need you to go to the station tomorrow and sign this statement. I might also have to see you again later. Just... Can you make us some coffee while we're here? The bill's on my partner."

Jake nods and leaves the office while Bucky chuckles to himself at the thought of Natasha facing the barman once he comes to ask for his money. It's her turn anyway, Bucky paid for their pastries two days ago, during a boring afternoon at the police station to fill up some paperwork. He has every damn right to get some free coffee.

When he goes back downstairs, Bucky can see that the cavalry has arrived: Nick Fury is there with a few more agents, scaring the shit out of the poor bartenders while Phil Coulson looks around with wide eyes that say it's his first time in a gay bar. Bucky almost feels tempted to tease him a little but when Natasha hands him a cup of hot coffee along with a glare, he finds another interest.

"How's the coffee?" he asks with a smirk.

"Hot. And expensive, so you owe me the next two times."

Bucky shrugs and doesn't fight her on that, and chooses to ask instead:

"How did it go with Teddy? Found anything interesting?"

"Maybe," she answers, not showing any surprise at his knowledge of the sub-manager's name and taking her time sipping her coffee before she adds, "He said Rumlow was expecting someone and he looked a little nervous when he came in, around one o'clock. No one showed up though."

"And Teddy bear doesn't know who he was supposed to meet up with?"

"Nope," Natasha concludes, stressing the _p_. "And he didn't notice when Rumlow got out either."

Okay. So, dead end on that part for now. What they have at the moment is a corpse, a terrible lack of witness (and, of course, no surveillance camera in the backyard, as they noticed when they followed Bruce outside), a potential other criminal organisation following Hydra's (wrong, so wrong) techniques and a bunch of freaked out gay bartenders. Plus a ghost who had a rendezvous with their dead boy. Cool.

"I really hope Bruce will find some fingerprints," Bucky mumbles before gulping his coffee and heaving a long, long sigh afterwards. "Fuck me, that's some good coffee. Think Jake could make some more for us while we talk to the others?"

If Natasha heard him, she doesn't show it and raises her chin as she looks at something behind Bucky's shoulder, and the young man suddenly feels a pair of eyes boring a hole through his head from behind. Or, you know, it would be a _pair_ of eyes if it was anyone but Nick Fury standing behind him. Not that Bucky would ever dare joke about that aloud... (Because first, it's Nick fucking Fury we're talking about and second, he's not exactly in a good place to make a joke about missing bits.)

"Hill and Coulson are on it," the man says as he comes around Bucky and stops at Natasha's level, a little on the side so that he can look at the both of them even with only one eye. "Barnes, you seem to be awfully bursting with energy this morning, that's good: I have a job for you."

Bucky swallows back a laugh at that: full of energy, him? Ah, Fury should book an appointment with the first ophthalmologist he meets because Bucky himself knows that he looks like shit, which he would never willingly admit in other circumstances: what Fury calls morning turns out to be almost four in the morning so really, Bucky thinks he's allowed to look like he does right now.

"What job, Sir?" he asks instead of giggling in Fury's face, but failing to hide a smug smile.

"Guess what, even bad guys got parents," his superior answers, making the smile suddenly slip off Bucky's face as he understands the implications, "Address is in the file Hill brought with her. Barnes, you go and report the death of their son, alright?"

He should say yes: he knows Fury wasn't really asking, rather giving him an order, that he really shouldn't question. But he already lost all his damage control ability when he resisted the urge to laugh so...

"Why me?" he (almost) whines. "Natasha could..."

The deadly glare she throws his way dissuades him from finishing that sentence, even though he was going to say the truth: Natasha is way better than him when it comes to that, she is able to announce the loss of a son, sister, father to their family with a perfect poker face and detached compassion. Bucky, he... Well, he feels sorry for them. He has seen a lot during his time in the army, before he was discharged for injury and joined the police instead, but the hardest thing for him was facing the families of his fallen comrades. The pain on their faces was too painful an echo of his own suffering and he could never get used to it. Still can't.

"Barnes," Fury booms, "if you're still here in five, I'll make sure your pile of paperwork never ends, got it?"

"Yes, sir," Bucky mumbled, admitting defeat in front of the paperwork threat. "I was already on my way."

It turns out that the Rumlow's live on the other side of town, which pleases Bucky a lot, since it means that he'll take advantage of the time he needs to get there to think and try to figure out what the hell he is supposed to tell Brock's parents. He bans anything that could sound too harsh, he can't possibly knock at their door and say _hey, your Hydra-member son is dead, one less asshole in the world!_ It might be true but also, insensitive as fuck. Bucky can make the difference between a criminal and someone's child. Besides, Brock Rumlow's parents most likely don't know anything about their son's illegal activities... That he's a thug, yeah, maybe. But a high-ranking member of a dangerous, criminal organisation? Nope.

In the end, he still has no idea how to announce the man's death to his parents even as he stops his car in front of a small, white house that needs a new paintjob in order to appear somewhat welcoming, in spite of the blue and purple geraniums that line up along the path leading to the front door, on which Bucky knocks while apprehension ties his stomach in knots.

It takes some time and three more knocks until the young man hears noise coming from inside the house and then, he sees the lights being turned on, seconds before someone opens the door ajar.

"Yes?" a feminine voice says, wary and sleep-laced, "What's it for?"

"Hello, ma'am," Bucky answers as professionally as he possibly can, holding his badge up, "I'm officer James Barnes, I'm sorry for bothering you this early today. Are you Mrs. Rumlow?"

"Yes," she replies as she opens the door wide, revealing herself as a petite woman dressed in a bathrobe, greying hair surrounding her face like a curtain, dark eyes taking in his uniform. "What can I do for you, officer?"

"Well, ma'am, I guess it would be... Uh, maybe more comfortable for you if we could go inside."

"Oh," she falters, worry creeping into her expression. "I... Yes, please, come in..."

Bucky nods and steps inside, already feeling terrible for the bad news he's just about to announce; Mrs. Rumlow leads him to her living-room and nervously tells him to sit down and make himself comfortable while she returns upstairs to wake up her husband. Bucky complies, sitting on the very edge of the couch while he glances around, and his eyes stop on the TV furniture: next to the giant screen, a framed picture shows a smiling and younger Brock Rumlow holding his high school diploma in front of the camera, surrounded by his proud father and beaming mother. The teenager on the picture is the Brock Rumlow they know and love, so different from his own knowledge of the man.

That's why Bucky has always hated reporting the death of someone, criminal or not, to their family: he might sympathise, strongly so, with the people he causes pain to - come on, he's a human being, of course he can't feel nothing for someone who has lost a loved one - but empathise? He tries not to, knowing how destructive it might be, but it presents a problem whenever it comes to the death of a criminal. Right now, for example, even though he hasn't said a thing yet, he knows that he will feel extremely awkward once he tells the Rumlow's about their son's passing: maybe they'll cry or be in shock, because Brock was their _child_ and they loved him, while Bucky only saw him as someone who worked for Hydra.

By the time Mr. Rumlow arrives in the living-room by his wife's side, the policeman feels as nervous as the woman but he tries to keep his hand steady as he accepts her husband's handshake.

"Officer Barnes," he introduces himself to the man, who looks much like his son, although with sparser hair.

"Collin Rumlow," the other replies, not at all sounding like he just got out of bed - some people where damn lucky. "So, are you going to announce us that our son did some stupid thing again?"

"Honey..."

"Come on, Lisa, it's always like that and you know it," Mr. Rumlow retorts with a tired shrug, before addressing Bucky again. "What did he do this time?"

"Uh, actually..." the young officer hesitates for a second, before bracing himself. "I regret to inform you that your son was found dead earlier this morning. I'm sorry."

The reaction is immediate: Lisa gives an incredulous cry before she all but collapses on the nearest armchair, a shocked and disbelieving expression on her face as she glances between the policeman and her husband, looking as white as a sheet.

"What?" the latter asks in a breathy whisper as his fingers dig into her wife's shoulder. "B... Brock is... ?"

"I'm sorry," Bucky repeats, hiding a wince to the best of his ability: this is exactly what he was talking about, this sensation of standing awkwardly in front of a tragedy, in which he has no part to play, unravelling.

"Who?" Brock's mother shrieks suddenly, tears rolling on her cheeks. "Who was it? Who did this to my baby?!"

She starts sobbing at that and turns her head, hiding her face and her pain against the strong body of her husband, still standing in spite of the shock.

"My team is still on the crime scene," Bucky explains as gently as he could, "gathering evidence for the investigation. You will certainly be updated on our progress."

Bucky doesn't add that they will also be requested to identify the body: that is the last thing they need to hear right now.

"Where..." Mr. Rumlow starts, carefully rubbing his wife's back to comfort her, "where did it happen? Was it some kind of... street brawl? Was it an accident?"

The officer draws his attention to the older man, who seems to be the rock his wife is holding onto. Bucky doesn't know whether Collin Rumlow is that mentally strong or tries to be for Mrs. Rumlow, or is even simply asking questions to avoid focusing and dealing with the news of his son's death, but he is impressive.

"At the moment, we don't know for sure what happened," Bucky explains as his mind goes back to the symbol roughly carved into Rumlow's chest. "But your son was found in the backyard of a gay bar in Manhattan, the _Boys'..._ "

"What?!" Collin interrupts him, suddenly looking baffled - and angry. "A gay bar? What was my son doing in there?"

Bucky takes an involuntary step backward when he catches sight of the man's hands, curling into tight fists, and he wonders for a second if he just outed Rumlow to his parents before he gathers his thoughts and says, calm but cautious:

"As I said, we haven't much information yet. But we do know that he was supposed to meet someone there."

"My son isn't a faggot," comes the reply, harsh and cold.

"Collin!"

Bucky's throat tightens at the slur, that sends him back to his high school years and the sneers and taunts he suffered from his classmates when he was too shy - uncertain, confused - to stand up for himself and be proud of who he was. He tries to shake the memories though, to stay professional, and he manages to answer:

"I didn't say he was, Sir. I'm just stating facts."

"My son wasn't..." Mr. Rumlow snarls again but doesn't finish his sentence, looking instead at his wife as she stands up on shaky legs and wraps herself more tightly in her bathrobe.

"I think you should leave, officer," she says firmly but on a kind tone. "Your job here is done, now let us... Please, leave us alone."

"Certainly, ma'am," Bucky answers around the lump in his throat after a short silence, understanding that he is no longer welcome in this house.

He nods to Mr. Rumlow, still holding himself ramrod straight, his face a mask of pure rage so incongruous after his apparent calm at the news of his son's death, and Bucky leaves the living-room while Lisa follows him.

"I'm sorry about my husband," she says softly with a sniff as she crosses the threshold of her house with the policeman and closes the door behind them. "Collin never accepted that B... Brock might be attracted to women _and_ men."

"But you did?" Bucky hazards a guess, feeling himself relax a little and only now realising that his shoulders and neck are tense, his muscles hard.

Lisa nods slowly but doesn't answer aloud, and she quickly wipes away the tears still falling from the corners of her eyes, looking up as if it would help keep the salty drops at bay.

"If you need any support..." the young man starts, suddenly feeling hints of the goddamn empathy he tries so hard to avoid, "Our staff includes grief counsellors who might help in this trying time."

The woman offers him a shaky smile, still beautiful and truly grateful despite the traces of wetness on each side of her lips.

"Thank you, officer," she says genuinely, but takes a step back, notifying him that their little chat is over.

Bucky gives her a little salute and turns around to leave, going back to his car with a crunchy noise as he walks along the path of gravel, but her brittle voice suddenly resounds behind him, just as he unlocks his car and the headlights come to life.

"O... Officer, wait!"

She quickly catches up to him, her broken face illuminated as she steps in the light, and she asks:

"Do you have a pen and paper?"

"Uh, yes?" he replies, a little confused, as he pats his pockets and finds his notebook that he hands over.

He watches as she scribbles an address in Brooklyn as well as a name, then she gives him back his materials with a tiny smile.

"Steve Rogers," she says, a hint of regret in her voice, "was Brock's last boyfriend. They broke up a few months ago. Maybe he'll help with your... investigation."

"Thank you," Bucky replies, even though she has already turned away and returned hurriedly to her front door.

Getting into his car with his notebook opened to the page where Mrs. Rumlow just jotted down Ex-Boyfriend's address, Bucky starts the engine and drives away, dialling Natasha's number at the same time.

"Romanov," she answers after not even three seconds.

"Hey, Nat!" he exclaims, glad to hear her voice after this awkward moment with the grieving couple. "How is it going at the Boudoir?"

"Frustratingly," she says, sounding bored. "No one saw anything and Rumlow apparently disappeared for more than one hour: no one caught a glimpse of him between the time he ordered a beer, around one o'clock, and the time he was found at forty past two."

"The Doc said he died around two... There's a security camera outside the front door, right? Can't we get the videos and filter them to get a look at the people who went in and walked out between one and two?"

"Are you telling me how to do my job?" she asks, her voice still dripping with boredom, although Bucky could now picture the frown she must be sporting. "Phil got the video surveillance tapes already, he'll go over them with Clint and see if anyone brings up a match with a known Hydra agent."

Bucky smirks to himself through the rear-view mirror and asks, like the little shit he is:

"Speaking of which, when are you telling Clint you want to have his babies?"

"Did you pee yourself in front of the Rumlow's?" she sasses him back without missing a beat.

"Rude, Nat."

He hears her laugh on the other end of the line and smiles in spite of himself, welcoming their easy banter with relief.

"Seriously though," she adds, suddenly all concerned about him, "how did it go?"

"As well as you can expect in this sort of situation," he sighs. "She cried, he yelled when I said Rumlow was in a gay bar. Felt really good."

"I bet," Natasha snorts.

"The mom was alright though... She gave me the address of Brock's last boyfriend, I'm on my way there."

"Do you need backup?"

Bucky takes a second to consider her question and hesitates slightly: he doesn't know who this Steve Rogers is. What kind of person gets in bed with a guy like Brock Rumlow, uh? The young man can only think of two possibilities: first, another Hydra agent - which, ew - and second, a random dude who knows nothing of his ex-partner's illegal activities, just like the Rumlow's still don't know their son was Hydra. Fuck, he hopes Mr. Boyfriend is a regular and boring citizen, not another asshole...

"I'll be fine, thanks," Bucky finally answers, believing in his words at ninety percents only.

But he's armed, after all, so he should be able to neutralise Rogers if their little conversation doesn't go too well... With his training, he could even do it without using his gun - he's cool like that. If he really, really has a problem though (read: the guy's a mountain of muscles), he's got Nat on speed dial and he knows she will never let him down.

"Okay," Natasha agrees, probably thinking exactly like him. "When you're done with him, go to sleep, James. Fury needs us back in the office at two this afternoon, he wants us fresh and awake for a new debrief over Hydra."

"Alright. Thanks, Nat. Hey, pizza at my place tonight?"

"Are you kidding?" she asks, "It's not five yet and you're already thinking about dinner?"

"I'm a man who likes to plan his days," Bucky defends his point, flippant. "Bring the vodka and I'll make sure to bring Clint."

"Asshole," she groans, before adding a quiet, "Deal."

Pleased with himself, Bucky laughs as she hangs up, and he turns the radio on to keep him company on his way to Brooklyn. He knows the borough fairly well, having lived in this part of New York all his childhood and teenage years; after coming back from overseas though, it was easier to remain in Manhattan, closer to Natasha, his childhood friend (as well as the only reason he didn't retreat to a deserted part of Wyoming as soon as he left the hospital) and the seat of Stark Industries - Tony Stark being the benefactor of the police and the genius who paid and designed his prosthetic arm. If he hadn't known that the guy could be such an ass sometimes, on top of being straight and married, Bucky would have kissed him the day he woke up after his last surgery, when he realised he had an arm again.

The young man smiles to himself at the memory, glad that this part of his life is now behind them, and he starts tapping his wheel to the sick beat of _Back on the road again_ as the song comes up next on the radio. By the time he arrives in Bed-Stuy, he's singing along a bit too enthusiastically but totally loves it, and Bucky only stops once he finds the brownstone where Steve Rogers lives.

... Well, he and probably some more people, given that it's a fucking four-story house - without a lift, he'd bet, and he can feel the burn in his legs already at the mere thought of climbing all those stairs if, knowing his luck or rather, lack thereof, Steve Rogers turns out to live under the roof.

Sighing, Bucky gets out of his car, jogs up the stairs to reach the front door and takes his flashlight to read the names under the doorbell properly. Ah! There: Steve Rogers. Wonderful. Pushing the button under the intercom, Bucky expects to wait in the chilly breeze of the early morning for a while, but only a few seconds later, a deep and grumpy voice echoes warily:

"Yes?"

"Hello Sir, I'm Officer Barnes," Bucky introduces himself as he shoves his badge in front of the black little eye that he supposes is a video camera, "Is this Steve Rogers?"

"Yeah," the man answers oh-so eloquently.

"May I come in, Sir?" the policeman asks politely. "I would like to talk to you."

"Not like I have a choice," the voice grumbles. "Come in, second floor."

 _Thank fucking God_.

Bucky doesn't point out that technically, Rogers does have the choice: the policeman doesn't have any warrant, meaning, no official authorisation to enter this house. However, if the resident invites him in, he has every right to proceed - and he hears the buzz of the door, telling him that yes, Rogers agrees to let him in.

As he climbs up the stairs, Bucky wonders, not for the first time, what kind of man Steve Rogers is. What does he know about him? Well, first, the dude fucked a member of Hydra - not good. Second, he sounds grumpy - also not good. Then, there's the fact that Rogers is already up a little before five in the morning, so... Early riser or guy who killed another one and can't find sleep after that?

As he reaches the second floor and steps into a tapestried hallway, Bucky braces himself to knock on the door standing in front of him, hoping that Mister-Ex-Boyfriend-slash-Possible-Murderer won't feel like using his skills against an officer of the law (ah, he thinks immediately after, as if that would stop him.) However, the man who opens the door doesn't look like anything he expected.

"Uh, g... good morning?" Bucky stammers helplessly as he takes in the features of the tiny guy facing him.

Because the man is tiny, like, really. Even though he's dressed in a thick sweater over his pyjamas, has a scarf wrapped around his neck and a woollen blanket draped over his shoulders, Bucky can see that the slightest breeze would have a good chance at knocking the guy over. Blond hair falls before his blue eyes, a bit too shiny to be normal and a sheen of sweat adorns his face.

"Hi," Steve Rogers says with a sniff, and Bucky realises that the man is sick, which might explain his apparent grumpiness from before. "Come in, Officer."

The young man does and Rogers closes the door behind him, without locking it, then takes the lead and gestures him to follow. They reach a living-room, consisting in a couch drowning under an insane amount of throw pillows, a small TV that the habitant probably doesn't watch much, as the screen is half-hidden by a green plant with large leaves. Bucky spots a lot of pills boxes on the coffee table, next to an empty glass and a bottle of water, surrounded by notebooks, pencils and... pastels? A wider glance thrown around him confirms his thought that Steve Rogers might be an artist: blank canvases are gathered in a corner of the room, by the window, and a few pieces (signed with a thin _Steve Rogers_ in the bottom left corner) hang on the walls - and Bucky might not know much about art, has no idea of what techniques Rogers uses, but damn, he's good.

"I don't hide drugs," the blond man says when he notices the policeman looking around intently, "if that's what you're after."

Without the intercom as an intermediate between them, Steve doesn't actually sound that grumpy, rather tired, but he puts up a brave front and forces a smile.

"Sorry about the mess," he adds, "I had a rough night."

"Partying?" Bucky asks, finally turning his eyes away from Rogers' art and to his blue eyes instead, "Going out with friends?"

"Try puking for hours and then, vomit triggering an asthma attack, and you'll be right," Steve rolls his eyes. "But I'm sure you ain't here to hear about my health problems, so shoot. What's the bad news?"

Okay. This guy doesn't seem as fragile as his appearance suggests, not if the way he crosses his arms against his chest and keeps his eyes on Bucky is anything to go by. He doesn't look too strong but he also doesn't look like the type to back down in a fight.

"I've been told you knew Brock Rumlow," Bucky thus says without preamble and sees Steve blink in surprise. "I'm sorry to tell you that he died this morning."

"He... died?" Steve repeats slowly, disbelieving. "But it's not... When?"

"Early morning, around two o'clock. He... Hey, are you alright?"

Steve shakes his head no as he stumbles his way to the couch and collapses into the pillows, tightening his grip on his blanket, and Bucky suddenly feels like an asshole: this guy used to date Rumlow. Maybe he loved him, maybe he still does - Bucky doesn't have the slightest idea of how and why they broke up. Maybe Rumlow ditched Steve and left him heartbroken, maybe not. In any case, they once shared a bond... Perhaps his announcement was a little too brutal, too insensitive, especially for a sick and exhausted guy who has spent his night throwing up. Fuck.

"When you say he died..." Steve murmurs wetly, "you mean he was killed, right?"

"Yes," Bucky replies with hesitation, keeping his fingers crossed so that the tiny artist in front of him won't start crying. "Someone found him in the backyard of a gay bar, the _B_..."

" _Boys' Boudoir_?" Steve interrupts, a horrified look on his face.

"How do you know that?" the policeman asks with narrowing eyes, immediately wary.

The man knows too much and he would have no way of knowing the exact location of the crime scene if he hadn't been there himself. Bucky has never got around to tell the name of the bar to Rumlow's parents so it's not possible that Steve and Lisa, or Collin, got in touch and shared the information - why would Lisa advise him to go see Steve in the first place, if she intended to call him anyway? But maybe Steve and Brock Rumlow met there or used to go there together, with friends, perhaps? After all, Jake did say Rumlow was a regular... However, he never mentioned a boyfriend.

"Brock and I broke up two months ago," the blond man says, apparently out of nowhere, "and we didn't keep in touch much after that. But tonight, around midnight I think, he called me, said he wanted to see me. He told me to meet him at the _Boys' Boudoir_ at half past one."

"And you went?" Bucky wonders, brows arching up. "What happened to throwing up all night?"

"I went," Steve answers with a pointed glare, "because he sounded like he... like he needed help, like he was terrified. We had rendezvous but Brock never showed up so I left around two. And since you're so _suspicious_ , I'll let you know that I ate Tibetan takeout yesterday night because I didn't have anything left in the fridge and apparently, thukpa bhatuk doesn't agree with my stomach and I already felt queasy when I went out. Satisfied, Officer?"

"Not really, no," Bucky says as he returns the glare. "You know, it's funny, because a barman from the _Boudoir_ told us that Rumlow was waiting for someone but apparently, said someone never showed up. Care to explain?"

"I don't know," Steve shots back, now a little angry. "I'm telling you the truth! I haven't seen Brock for... Two, or three weeks, I don't remember. I had some of my stuff still at his flat and I got it back. I didn't see him tonight and I didn't kill him, end of the story!"

Bucky is about to snap back at the blond man but the words get stuck in his throat when Rogers starts coughing and breathing with difficulty, then makes grabby hands towards something on the small table. An inhaler. Worry kicking in, the police officer snatches it from the mess of pills boxes and hands it over to Steve, who nods gratefully even as he breathes out as much as he can manage before taking a first puff of medicine.

The policeman watches anxiously as the guy slowly calms down and breathing becomes easier to him, until he tosses the inhaler next to him, on the couch.

"Does it happen often?" Bucky asks carefully, as if afraid that he could trigger another attack with his words only.

"Asthma," Steve answers with a shrug, apparently thinking that it explains everything. "You learn to live with it. That, and all the other problems."

Bucky fidgets slightly, feeling a little bit guilty that his conversation (argument?) with the young man ended up making him sicker than before he came in.

"Perhaps I should let you rest," he suggests, crossing his fingers so that Steve won't feel offended at that, thinking that Bucky underestimates him. "Once you get better, you'll have to come down to the police station to make a statement."

"Okay," the blond man answers with a nod, thankfully not pointing out Bucky's concern. "I'll see you soon then, I guess."

The police officer knows when he's being politely told to get the fuck out so he does, wishing Rogers a good day - or as good as possible, seeing that in the span of a few hours, the tiny artist got stood up by his ex-boyfriend, got sick, got the police visit and some bad news. If half of this happened to Bucky, he wouldn't leave his bed for the next three days.

When he steps outside of the brownstone, faint traces of light illuminate the sky and the young man lets a bitter smile curl up his lips at the thought that he'll go to sleep when most people are only starting to wake up. But hey, he should actually feel grateful that he gets to sleep at all: he still remember that terrible week, a few months ago, when he slept something like one hour and half a night, two if he was lucky. Good times.

  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far! I'm dying to know what you think of the story so please, give me your thoughts and opinions in the comments, it would make my day :)
> 
> As a side note, Bucky is listening to [Back on the road again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MQG3vdBcN6g) by REO Speedwagon and Steve ate thukpa bhatuk, which is a Tibetan noodle soup ;)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Here comes the second chapter of this story; it took some time to write because I'm busy working with horses, sorry about that :) Enjoy this new chapter!

  


Bucky sleeps for five hours straight when he goes home and by the time he steps out of the shower, all clean and shiny, he feels quite rested - which, amazing. He slept like Sleeping Beauty, only there was, sadly, no prince charming to wake him up. So, he compensates by wearing his underwear and his dog tags only, and by cooking himself a late, greasy breakfast (he'll take his pleasure where he can, right?) consisting of eggs and bacon; he cooks twice the amount of food he would usually eat because it's almost noon and he needs his strength to face the afternoon - and Fury but that's a detail - and also, because he had a rough night and he deserves a treat.

He imagines the way his mom would react if she knew what his definition of a treat is, especially if she also knew that he plans on ordering pizzas with Nat and Clint on the same day. In his mind, he can clearly see the horrified look on her face and Bucky laughs around his spoon of scrambled eggs, nearly choking in the process, and he immediately feels like an idiot afterwards. And guilty, because his mom has always tried so, so hard to get him to eat his vegetables when he was a kid and there he is now, at twenty-six, eating lipids with a little spoon. Oops.

"I'll order a veggie pizza tonight, mom," he promises aloud with a smile on his face, as if she could see him right now.

Thinking about his mother reminds him that he's supposed to call her and his dad more often than once a week, so he stands up, the plate in one hand and the spoon in his mouth, and he heads for his office where he knows he will find some post-it notes... Somewhere in the middle of the mess of files.

One thought leading to another, Bucky ends up sitting on the floor, half-naked, rereading the notes he took that morning, both at the bar and after he left Rogers'. He can picture Natasha doing the same in her living-room (but fully clad and drinking a cup of white tea, her favourite) in the prospect of comparing and sharing their thoughts once they get their heads together to work on the case. Natasha and he have been work partners for two years or so and they've had quite the time to develop their own methods to get the best results faster; discussing the details of the case over and over again is one of them. Another one, that Bucky couldn't do without, consists of writing down lists and joining the dots together (where he can, that is.)

So he thinks back on the events of the previous night and after a while, the young man manages to gather the essentials as well as the hypotheses he has to check:

\- Brock Rumlow, Hydra, in _Boys' Boudoir_ = > Bar related to Hydra or not?

\- Rumlow walks in _Boys' Boudoir_ at 01:00, dies around 02:00, body found by Jake Finchley around 02:40 = > what happened between 01:00 and 02:00??

\- No torture => Hydra signature? Warning to others? Other organisation?

\- Why kill Rumlow? Traitor?

\- Rendezvous at 01:30 with Steve Rogers, ex. Said he went in + left at 02:00 BUT Teddy (manager's replacement) said no one came. Missed each other? => What happened between 01:00 and 01:30??

\- Parents don't know about Hydra => And Rogers?

In short, they don't know a lot and so far, unless Clint and Phil find something of any worth in the videotapes, they don't have a single lead. That is the kind of case that Bucky both despises and loves more than any other: sure, it will get on his nerves, there will come a time when he thinks this is it, this is the unsolvable case every policeman stumbles on at least once in their life. But when they do solve it, Bucky knows that the frustration will be worth it and that these accomplishments will make him proud, of himself and his team as well.

The problem, currently, is that they lack a proper witness: no one saw Rumlow disappear, not to mention being killed, and Steve Rogers - if he said the truth and did find himself at the _Boys' Boudoir_ that night - passed unnoticed. Right now, the only suspect they have is Steve... He's the victim's ex-boyfriend, whom he was supposed to meet at the same place as the crime scene and, to top it all, at the exact same time too. Unless he was framed, everything seems to point in Rogers' direction.

If they wanted to arrest him, Fury would only have to prove his acquaintance with Hydra and bam!, no more free Rogers. But then, Bucky thinks as he stands up and goes back to his kitchen, that would mean looking for evidence in order to further blame a suspect, when the right, chronological order wants them to find evidence that will lead to a suspect.

To be honest, Bucky would kind of feel disappointed if Rogers turned out to be the murderer. The young, tiny man doesn't look like a bad guy... Yeah, yeah, he knows he shouldn't judge a book by its cover, yada yada yada, but he still can't imagine Rogers and his blanket killing someone, even an asshole like Rumlow.

Well, they did date, after all. What does that say about Steve, uh? That he falls for bad guys? That he is one himself? Fuck, he hopes not. If even tiny, asthmatic and harmless-looking artists reveal themselves as Hydra, you really can't trust anyone.

On these optimistic thoughts, Bucky puts his empty plate and his fork in the sink, downs a glass of pineapple juice and heads for his bedroom to find something to wear. Well, he hasn't much of a choice since the dress code of his unit consists of either the uniform or a suit. Bucky knows that some people love the uniform and all the kinky possibilities that come with it (one of his former lovers wanted to be handcuffed, so he _knows_ ) but he would rather wear a suit, much classier and less obvious. Plus, today is going to be a slow day at the office, so... Suit.

After a little while (because his prosthetic arm and long sleeves don't exactly get along), Bucky finally manages to get fully dressed and grabs his phone to text Natasha:

_Pick you up?_

_Yes, please :)_ , she replies almost immediately, like she always does.

If he didn't have to drive Natasha, Bucky would have waited some more before going out and making his way to the police station but since he has to pick up his friend, he chooses to leave now. Their meeting is at two but he can tell Nat will want to be there earlier so that they can go over their respective notes before the debriefing... Who is he to deny his best friend, uh?

When he pulls over in front of her flat, she's already outside, and she greets Bucky with the words:

"Hey, loser! Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," he answers automatically. "You?"

"Not really, I think there is a problem with my mattress. Now my back hurts."

"Spending crazy nights rolling in lust and passion will do that to a bed," Bucky chuckles. "Not that you would know anything about that of course, considering that you stare at Clint all day long without actually talking to him about _dating_. Or fucking, that would work too."

Natasha glares at him. Years ago, this dark look would have terrified him; now, it just makes him proud to know he's managed to piss her off - it is a delightful feeling.

"We wouldn't be compatible anyway," she says after a short silence.

"Come on, Nat, this compatibility thing is astrology stuff. You don't believe in that. It's up to you to make it work and seeing how crazy in love you are with Clint, I'm sure you'll manage."

"Shut up and drive, James," she simply tells him.

Bucky smirks to himself as he obeys and joins in the Manhattan traffic, relieved that Natasha hasn't punched him this early in the afternoon, which means that she understood his point. Seriously though, this pining has been going on for long enough, on both sides: although Nat doesn't go all starry-eyed in front of Clint like _he_ does, Bucky can read her facial expressions like an open book and he knows she's dying to ask him out. But she doesn't, because _dangerous jobs, crazy schedules_ , blah blah blah... But Bucky knows the truth: she doesn't dare to get attached because she's too afraid of screwing up and losing the man she loves. Regarding Clint's reasons... Well, he's a coward when it comes to feelings (and Natasha, which are always related) so he'll never ask her out, unless he's drunk or being tortured.

"Found anything interesting at Rumlow's ex-boyfriend's place?" Natasha asks.

Bucky sighs but nods, then says:

"It could be him, you know. The murderer, I mean. They had a rendezvous at the bar, at half past one, Rumlow set it up himself. Steve - well, _Rogers_ \- went into the _Boys' Boudoir_ but according to him, he didn't see Rumlow."

"But Teddy and the other bartenders didn't see anyone with him and then, Rumlow vanished, only to reappear dead," Natasha completes.

Bucky nods again and adds:

"Rogers said he left the bar around two, but that's also the time of Rumlow's death."

"Of death," Natasha repeats, deep in thoughts. "But that's not the time his throat was sliced open... How long do you think it takes for a man like Rumlow to empty himself of his blood?"

"I don't know, ask Bruce," Bucky answers with an involuntary shudder. "But quite some time, I guess. So, the murderer strikes before two o'clock and then draws Hydra's symbol. It's possible that they left the bar just before two, around the time Steve Rogers did. Not much later, I think, they had to know someone would find the body and call the cops, they didn't have any interest in staying."

"All of that points to Rogers," Natasha sums up, curling a strand of her long hair around her forefinger. "What do you think of him?"

"I don't know..." Bucky slowly answers, eyes on the road and hands on the wheel. "He looked really shocked when I told him about Rumlow. Also, he was sick. For real, that wasn't acting, and I think his reaction was a honest one. I'm not sure that we should focus on him, he's not our guy."

"You know we will have to dig a little," Natasha reminds him. "Plus, maybe it isn't a coincidence that they had a rendezvous last night. If Rogers is Hydra as well, it's possible that they wanted to meet in order to share information... Either it got out of hand or, like I said, the symbol was drawn by someone from another organisation. Rogers was lucky enough to miss the murderer."

Bucky doesn't answer. The thought that Steve Rogers might be Hydra makes him... uncomfortable. He doesn't tell Natasha though, because it's just a feeling, an intuition, and the redhead doesn't believe in anything but facts: if she has the blatant proof that they can trust Rogers, she will. In the meantime... He's a suspect, no matter Bucky's impressions. He can't and won't blame her for that, he makes mistakes like anybody else and Natasha keeps her mind clear where Bucky's good heart clouds his judgement: the balance they found between their different personalities and life experience is what makes them such a great team.

When they arrive at the police station, some time before two in the afternoon, a small crowd has already gathered inside and in front of the meeting room. Phil is speaking with Fury and gestures to the files under his arm, Bruce and his team have taken the coffee machine hostage - Bucky can't possibly understand that: they're doctors, for fuck's sake, they should know this beverage is just as bad as poison! Leaning against the glass wall of the room stands Maria, looking like a mother hen watching over her ducklings, although she only draws her attention to one person. Sometimes, Bucky wonders whether she's a police officer or Fury's personal bodyguard. Last but not least, there's Clint, who tries (and fails monumentally) to keep his cool when Natasha rounds the corner.

"Hi, Natasha," the fool greets her with a big, idiotic smile.

Bucky would find this cute if he hadn't witnessed the same scene over and over again for two years so he merely sighs in despair when Nat responds with a quiet _Hello, Clint_ that she signs at the same time as she says the words, in spite of the hearing aids he's clearly wearing. Idiots, both of them.

"Clint," Bucky calls out, snapping his fingers in front of his eyes as they follow Natasha's every move across the hallway. "Hey, Clint!"

"Uh?" the blond man asks, coming back to reality. "Oh, Bucky! Uh, what?"

"You, my couch and pizza tonight at eight?" Bucky suggests.

"Sure. Uh, just us or..." he starts while his eyes slowly travel back to a certain redhead.

"She'll be there too," Bucky promises, then adds upon seeing Clint's happy face, "Whoa, I'm not at all offended to know you prefer her company over mine, even though _I_ am paying for the pizzas..."

"Come on," Clint drawls, "you know that I love you, Bucky..."

"If you boys are done flirting with each other," Fury's booming voice suddenly resounds, "I suggest you both take a seat and focus on what's going on."

"Alright, boss," Clint complies as he enters the meeting room and chooses the chair closest to Natasha (he's so desperate.)

"Don't call me that," Nick growls, "it makes me feel like I'm part of the mafia, not the police."

That tone would make Bucky himself watch his words, however Clint doesn't seem to have much skill in analysing risks and threats when he's not in the field, so he keeps on babbling:

"Technically, I don't have any proof that you haven't been a member of some shady governmental agency or the mafia, so I..."

"Barton, shut up."

"Yes, Sir."

Bucky rolls his eyes as he takes the seat opposite to Maria, who glances at Clint with a disapproving glare, but her facial expression quickly turns neutral then serious again when Fury silences the whole room with a swift gesture of his hand.

"Let's get straight to the point," he starts, his voice stern, "since you all know why you're here. Two words: Brock Rumlow. You could say he was Hydra's right-hand man, now he's dead and I want to know why. We have as many reasons to think it's Hydra's doing as we have to believe it's not. Coulson, I want a threat assessment, check for any recent rise in traffics of all sorts that can't be related to Hydra. If someone is trying to start a war with them, I want to know who."

"That will be done, Sir," Phil answers, as dutiful as ever.

"Barton, I need to see progress on the video tapes. No match yet?"

"None as of now," Clint admits, "sorry to disappoint. I let the program run on its own, maybe we'll get something once I get back to it."

"You're looking for anyone from Hydra that we already know as such, right?" Bucky suddenly asks. "Do you think you could search someone else?"

"Explain, Barnes," Fury enjoins, his only eye setting on him with a faded hint of curiosity.

Bucky nods, secretly pleased that he managed to tickle their boss' interest at least a little bit, and he says:

"I did what you asked last night and I told the Rumlow's about their son's death. Lisa Rumlow then gave me the address of his last boyfriend, Steve Rogers; when I talked to him, he admitted that he was on the crime scene around the same time as Rumlow was, even though no one saw him."

"I want a full report on my desk by five this afternoon, Barnes. Get Rogers' records and make sure this guy isn't Hydra," Fury decides with a frown, "Barton, add Rogers to the search."

"Understood."

"Hill, Romanoff, we're expecting a bunch of bartenders by three this afternoon for their official statements. I want you on it. Show them Rogers' picture, see if anyone knows him. Banner, what about the DNA testing?"

"It is still ongoing, Sir. We're running different analyses at the same time, regarding the fabric we found on the crime scene and the samples of skin under Brock Rumlow's fingernails, which show that he tried to defend himself and might give us a lead. Also, a part of my team is still at the bar and searches the neighbourhood to find the weapon. We'll keep you updated."

"Good," Fury concludes, "then we'll get back to work. I need everyone to keep both eyes open, follow every lead, even those that seem unlikely: we won't know for sure if we don't check. Questions?"

Everyone in the room remains silent: their job and the instructions are pretty clear, no one would dare tell otherwise to Fury. However, Bucky has a sudden thought and asks:

"What about the feds?"

"What about them?" Nick groans, already pissed at the mere mention of the other agents.

"They've shown a growing interest in Hydra's business and now we have a dead man to deal with. Is there any risk that this investigation might be stolen away from us?"

Nick snorts as he makes his way towards the door of the meeting room and turns around right before leaving to declare:

"Over my dead body."

That is... oddly reassuring, Bucky thinks as Fury disappears around the corner and his colleagues stand up. It has already happened in the past that many hours of hard work got simply reduced to nothing at all because the FBI decided that their agents would do better with this kind of case, hence Bucky's wariness. He can't stand the thought of starting this investigation (that promises to be an interesting although frustrating one) and then having to withdraw... Not to mention that he would never know the results of _his_ work because the FBI classifies shit as easily as Clint makes heart-shaped eyes at Natasha. Fury says he'll stand his ground though, so there's that.

"See you later," he tells his friends as they part ways to deal with their own tasks.

Clint returns to his videos while Nat follows Maria to the hall where they'll meet the bartenders and dispatch them to their respective office for the statements, and Bucky can already spot Jake Finchley's pink highlights. The guy is a bit in advance but that won't bother the two women, who will get down to business right away. They'll probably terrify him, if Jake's reaction to Bucky on the previous night is anything to go by.

With a low chuckle, the young policeman strides across the wall and waves at the bartender, who answers with an hesitant, wavering smile (how cute) and watches Bucky disappear in his office. The officer turns on his laptop and gets comfortable, removing his suit jacket and rolling up his shirt sleeves before he sits at his desk.

In less than one minute, Bucky is fully absorbed in his work and Steve Rogers' criminal record, just like Fury asked. His boss will certainly be disappointed - or glad, depending on your point of view. There's literally no way this guy might be Hydra and that, strangely, comes as a huge relief. Steve never ever got arrested for dealing drugs and was never involved in sex trafficking or all the business Hydra does, thank God. The only dirt he can dig up on Steve Rogers connects the young artist to a bar brawl a few years ago: according to the statement he made back then, some guy had been too eager to share his homophobic views and spew his venom at his face... Let's say that Steve didn't take too kindly to it (and based on the pictures, neither did his face.)

Slowly, Bucky manages to build up his personal analysis of the artist: his website shows pictures of sketches and paintings but it also includes a biography where Steve reveals a bit more about himself. The young man donates to medical causes, is a dog person, has loud opinions about homophobia and, in short, is a tiny ball of anger when it comes to injustices. Yes, Bucky knows that this might be a cover, nothing more. Layers and layers of lies, maybe... But the blond male's criminal record is clean and few Hydra members can say the same. As far as Bucky is concerned, Steve Rogers is a regular citizen of America who never associated with illegal activities.

That leaves the mysterious relation with Brock Rumlow, whom Bucky pictures as the total opposite of a sick, kind artist. Did he fool Steve? That may be. Lies don't scare away people of so little moral virtue...

By the time Bucky finishes to type his report to Nick, starting from his not-so pleasant stop by the Rumlow's and up to his departure from Steve Rogers' place, he is in dire need of coffee. He doesn't feel like suffering the horrible taste of the police station coffee today though, so Bucky grabs his wallet, intending to make a quick trip to the coffee shop a few streets down, the one that serves real coffee, real tea and real whatever you want (meaning _cakes_ , mostly) but as he walks out of his office and steps into the hallway, a vaguely familiar face makes him turn around to hide in the shadows of the nearest wall.

Now, let's make it clear that Bucky is _not_ a coward - his bravery sometimes even flirts with stupidity and he can live with that - but he doesn't want to face Colin Rumlow twice the same day, thank you very much. First, Bucky still hasn't digested the slurs, even though the man wasn't directly addressing him at that time; second, Lisa is also standing next to her husband and Bucky can't handle more tears right now. He can't help feeling a little bit guilty since Lisa was so kind to him when they met, even helping him when she gave him Steve's address, but Colin's presence irks him.

Bucky quickly understands why the couple has come to the police station, which makes him even more careful as he hides himself: they came to identify their son's body, no doubt. This is the procedure, it's inevitable, even though Fury's team is a hundred percent positive that the dead man truly is Brock Rumlow... His parents won't spend a good time, obviously, and Bucky would rather like to be far away from them. On the upside, they have the best grief counsellor they could have wished for and the young man knows that Sam will take care of the Rumlow's and hold their hands through the procedure with humanity and dignity. Bucky secretly thinks that Sam Wilson was an angel in another life and sometimes he pictures him in his mind with a pair of huge wings - a fact that he does not share with the other man because Sam might be super kind, he would still laugh at Bucky's face.

As soon as Lisa and Collin Rumlow have turned around the corner of another hallway, Bucky leaves his hideout and trots towards the entrance, giddy at the thought of the upcoming cake and coffee. He'll take one for Nat and Clint too, the latter because he deserves it and Nat because she'll kill him if he dares come back with a cup of good coffee and abandons her to the machine of the police station. However, as his hand grabs the handle of the door, he feels a resistance and suddenly catches sight of another person through the glass panel, frozen in the exact same position as him. _Steve Rogers_.

Bucky steps back as he opens the door, allowing the blond man to enter the police station, and he stammers:

"H... hi! Sorry, I didn't see you there but come in, please."

"Thanks," Steve answers with a sheepish smile, "You said I should come here to make my statement so... Here I am."

"Yeah, I didn't mean it quite so soon, you know? Are... Are you okay? Better than this morning, I mean?"

The answer to his question is standing right under his gaze: Steve, although not clad in his pyjamas nor wrapped in his blanket anymore, doesn't look particularly peachy. Bucky can see dark circles under his blue eyes, results of his sickness and, certainly, of the lack of sleep that the policeman put him through when he told the artist about Rumlow's death.

"A little," Steve says nonetheless, his face illuminated with gratitude at the concern he hears in Bucky's voice.

"I'm sorry," the officer apologies with sincerity, "I shouldn't have been so harsh with you, I..."

"Stop it, please," the blond male interrupts him with a wave of his hand and a frown. "Having asthma doesn't make me a fragile little thing and most of the time, I don't have to deal with policemen accusing me of having murdered my ex-boyfriend. Which I haven't, if you're still wondering."

"Right," Bucky mutters, a little taken aback. "Well, in that case you'll have no problem with officially saying so and signing your statement, uh?"

"None at all," Steve answers with a tired but confident smile, until he deflates almost imperceptibly. "I have a question, though: are you going to take care of it? Or your colleague lurking over there?"

Brows arching up, Bucky follows Steve's gaze and turns around to find Natasha, leaning against the wall behind the information counter and staring at them with an interested expression that Bucky only knows too well. _Fuck no_.

"I will," he announces as he turns towards Steve again, surprised at the relief he can see in the man's blue eyes. "Why, do you have a problem with agent Romanov?"

"N... no!" Steve cries out, before he turns down the volume of his voice, "I mean... I don't really like the way she's looking at me. It's... scary?"

Oh. Bucky tries to fight his laughter, since he can tell that Rogers would not appreciate to be made fun of, but he still fails at hiding his smile. In Steve's defence, Natasha doesn't give off a super friendly vibe, he'll admit as much.

"Don't worry about her," he eventually tells the young man and, before he realises what he is about to say, he blurts out, "That look she's giving you? That means she thinks you're cute."

"Uh..." Steve deadpans, suddenly blushing - is this the same guy who hit another one in a bar? That can't be - at the same time as Bucky mentally facepalms, "That's... nice but I'm not interested?"

"Neither is she," the policeman shots back with a laugh. "That would be ridiculous."

Ah, of course he had to say that. Well done, Buck. Now, Rogers is staring at him, half-confused and half-offended - which is totally understandable - and instead of giving him the easy explanation, the one about Nat having found his soul mate already, Bucky digs his grave a little deeper:

"I mean," he hurries to say, "she's not interested in you either, she thinks you're... Well, fuck it: she thinks you're my type."

There, he said it. And Steve looks up, suspicion written all over his face as he stares at him with narrowed eyes, until he realises that Bucky is serious.

"Okay," he says slowly. "Well, in _that_ case, I am actually very interested."

A nervous laugh escapes Bucky's mouth at that. Whoa, uh, that's... unexpected. And flattering too, on top of being slightly problematic since Steve is a suspect in a sordid affair of murder. He doesn't know what to answer because first, Natasha is right (as often) and Rogers does fall in the category of guys who usually catch his attention and second, this is slipping towards personal topics that are not meant to be discussed at work, especially not when Bucky is supposed to spend some time alone with Rogers to interrogate him.

Steve apparently comes to the same conclusion because he laughs too, with the same nervous chuckle as Bucky, and he says:

"That was inappropriate, I'm sorry. Could we start over and begin with the statement, please? I have a lot to do this afternoon..."

"Sure," Bucky agrees, glad that Steve saved the situation. "This way, please."

The young man leads the blond to his office and sends a pointed glare Natasha's way as they walk next to her, to which she replies with a smirk of her own. Ah, she thinks she's funny. As if.

"Have a seat," the officer tells Steve when they arrive in his office and gestures to the two chairs set in front of his desk.

The blond male complies, glancing around with interested eyes that travel to every trinket Bucky has placed in this room to give it a more personal vibe. There are a few cats that his sister made out of polymer clay when she was younger, a funny pencil holder shaped like a clown head, lots of magnets on the metal storage cabinets like the one that reads _I love Budapest_ , courtesy of Clint, or _Alcohol? Not in my vodkabulary_ , courtesy of Natasha. Fury hasn't seen this one (yet) and Bucky thanks every deity for that.

"Are you ready?" he asks Steve, who then nods. "Okay, so first I need to see your ID to make sure that you're... Well, you're you. That's the procedure."

"Sure," the blond agrees and digs his right hand in the pocket of his thick coat to retrieve his wallet.

Bucky reaches out and doesn't miss the way Steve's gaze remains stuck on his left arm as the artists hands him his identity card but the police officer doesn't mention it, doesn't squirm, doesn't fidget. He has already had to deal with the curious stares or worse, the sad eyes filled with pity, and he doesn't want to acknowledge the expression on Steve's face. Coming to term with the loss of his arm after Afghanistan gave him enough of a hard time, he sure as hell ain't about to help others accept his own body.

In the utmost silence, the policeman inserts the card in his reader and watches as Steve's birthday (July fourth, are you kidding?) and full name appear on the screen of his computer, along with his picture. He's almost jealous, because the artist looks pretty good on it while Bucky himself looks like hell, sickly pale and with eyes as dark and sunken as a black hole - in his defence, he was still missing an arm when the picture was taken, so...

Bucky is about to give the ID back to Steve when he notices that the guy is still staring at his metal arm and anger starts to rise in his guts. What? Dude's never seen a prosthetic? Usually, people try themselves at subtlety and discretion when they stare but Rogers... What an asshole. Ah, to say that Bucky liked him a little. The young man suddenly snaps his fingers in front of the blond male's eyes, which finally makes him look up in surprise.

"Problem?" Bucky growls, clearly aggressive.

"What? Oh!" Steve realises, before his cheeks turn a deep red. "No, I... Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare, I just... Your arm catches the light and it's... beautiful. The way it reflects in tiny sparkles on the walls is amazing and I was thinking that I would love to draw you and picture the flashes of..."

Steve shuts his mouth as soon as he becomes aware that Bucky is gaping at him with a confused frown on his face.

"Sorry!" the blond male repeats, not even daring to meet the policeman's gaze anymore. "I tend to babble nonsense whenever I get caught up in art topics, uh... I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable? I can make my statement to your scary colleague if you prefer, I'd understand that you don't want to..."

"Thank you," Bucky interrupts him softly. "That's probably the nicest comment someone ever made on my arm."

Steve blinks at that, stunned into silence, and Bucky quickly steers the conversation back on track, trying to ignore the way Rogers confuses and intrigues him. Maybe he should make a list about him as well, just like he does with Natasha for their cases: perhaps he would start to understand Steve Rogers a little better. For now though, he satisfies himself with the knowledge that this tiny artist doesn't belong to Hydra.

As the blond man starts talking, Bucky remains entirely focused on Steve's words and nothing else; everything he says fits what he told the policeman that morning, so at least Bucky must give him some credit due to his coherence. He smiles to himself, thinking that he was right to argue with Nat that Steve isn't their man. Of course he makes mistakes sometimes - who doesn't? - but he feels pretty confident on this one case. Now, if Steve is not the murderer, maybe he can still prove himself useful and help the police with the investigation... Here comes the million-dollar question, then.

"Does the word _Hydra_ sound familiar to you?" Bucky asks once they are done with the statement.

He stares at Steve, spying on his every reaction, and his eyes narrow when he notices that the young man has become tense and now watches him with a sort of wariness that quickly turns into understanding - _understanding of what?_ Bucky thinks shortly before Steve gives him the answer himself.

"They killed Brock, didn't they?" the young man asks, going for a light tone although his sad blue eyes betray his sorrow.

"So you do know them," Bucky shots back sternly, heart tightening at the thought that Steve has somehow been involved in Hydra's mess (to what extent, though?)

"I... No, it's not..." Steve stammers, probably realising that admitting to know of Hydra won't help him to get in the police's good graces. "I don't know _who_ they are. I... I heard Brock once, he was speaking with someone else and they... They didn't know I was there so I heard enough to understand that Hydra gathers bad people to do... bad things. I wanted no part in it and that's why I broke up with him."

Bucky nods, hoping in secret that Steve won't start getting into the details: this, this time he is spending with the young man, although not a chore (have you seen Steve's eyes?!), is part of his work as a police officer and not some therapist. He has already had people breaking down in his office before and he can't say that he is eager to relive the experience... Now, contrarily to what Clint might silently think and Nat might say aloud, Bucky is not heartless, far from it.

He understands that Steve must have felt sad, angry and mostly disappointed in his boyfriend when he learned that Brock was, in fact, an asshole; however, he really prays that the blond male will refrain from bawling his eyes out upon remembering his time with his ex - _dead_ ex, he should add. Remember Bucky and his empathy? Well, if his colleagues see him crying because of some suspect's sob story, that will be the end of his reputation. Thanks but no, thanks.

"The person Rumlow was talking to," Bucky starts, "do you know them? Were they friends?"

"I... don't think so," Steve answers slowly, voice tight with concentration. "If they were, I didn't know it. But I met most of Brock's friends and that man wasn't among them."

"That man, could you describe him? Recognise him?"

"His voice, maybe," Steve offers, "because I didn't see him too well. I remember that he had dark hair combed backwards but that might fit half of New York's male population."

"Indeed," Bucky agrees easily, already giving up on the possibility to find that man. "Tell me though, when you found out about Brock Rumlow's acquaintances with Hydra, did you confront him?"

"Well," Steve mumbles, "I couldn't dump him without reason. So yeah, I did. And before you ask: no, he didn't threaten me, hit me or try to recruit me."

"And that's it?" Bucky asks with a deep frown. "You want me to believe that he just let you go and that he didn't try to pressure you in any way, when you could have gone to the police to tell us everything you knew?"

Across the desk, Steve glares at him with all the strength of his blue gaze and growls through gritted teeth:

"That is exactly what I want you to believe, because that is the truth."

"Okay. Then why didn't you go to the police, exactly?"

This time, Steve seems to deflate and he looks down to his hands, clenched on the edge of the desk, that he slowly brings back to his lap.

"That's... easy to explain," he whispers. "I loved him. I... It hurt enough to find out about his activities and I didn't want to know more than that. I mean... I didn't want to be involved in any investigation and realise that the man who held me in his arms had killed people with the same hands that he had used to make love to me. I knew a good man. I didn't want to meet the monster."

Silence falls upon the office when Steve stops talking, a little out of breath now that his emotions threaten to overwhelm him, and Bucky has to refrain from punching himself: he was right (again!) that morning. Steve was in love with Rumlow and their break-up didn't happen in the best of circumstances... Great, now he feels bad for his indelicacy when he announced Rumlow's death, for pushing the young man _and_ for prying into personal stories. Not that it is unusual: every case they handle requires to dig into people's private life but that doesn't mean that it makes it easy (or pleasant.)

"Are you okay?" Bucky asks hesitantly, then nearly kicks himself for the poor choice of words - Steve has to talk about his deceased ex-boyfriend, of course he can't be doing too good - and adds, "I mean, can you breathe properly?"

The blond male looks up, startled by the concern in the policeman's voice and he manages to flash him a reassuring smile.

"Yes, thank you. But I told you before, I'm not..."

"A fragile little thing," Bucky completes for him, "I get it."

"Good," Steve concludes with a satisfied smirk, although it looks forced. "Do you have any other question?"

The officer takes a few seconds of reflexion to make sure that he has asked all the important questions and slowly shakes his head when he comes to a conclusion.

"We are done for now," he explains, "so you're free to go. Thank you for your cooperation. I might ask you to come back though, or perhaps I'll have to bother you at home. Sorry about that."

Steve nods with a helpless shrug that could mean that he doesn't mind or, merely, that he can't do anything about it. It is Bucky's job, after all.

"It's okay," the blond man says on a gentle tone. "You're doing what you have to..."

"Yeah," the policeman admits, "but I'm sorry that I have to remind you of... some unpleasant events."

Steve smiles but doesn't answer as he stands up, taking the time to smooth the creases in his coat before he whispers:

"I have a lot more good memories from my relation with Brock than bad ones, so... It makes it easier. And worse too, because we could have built something solid if he hadn't been... Well, you know."

Bucky has to bite his tongue to keep from apologising - again. It's just that... Fuck, he likes that tiny artist and seeing him so dejected hurts, because the blond seems like a genuinely good person and nice people are so rare to come across nowadays, he doesn't deserve an asshole ex-boyfriend. It even makes him mad, that someone could betray Steve Rogers like that, could start a relationship with him and lie for... What, months? Years? Bucky doesn't feel too eager to find out how long this masquerade lasted between the two men, for fear of getting even madder.

"Until next time?" Steve says as he offers his hand, that Bucky shakes with a nod and a smile.

He rises to his feet in order to open the door of his office, like the perfect gentleman he is because his mom raised him well, and for an obscure reason, he goes as far as to walk the young man back to the hall and to the exit.

"Have a good afternoon," Bucky tells Steve as he lays his hand on the door handle.

The blond artist turns his head and stares back at him above his shoulder. For a second, he looks like he wants to say something and Bucky would have urged him on with curiosity if Steve's eyes hadn't swallowed his whole attention. More specifically, they drown him like an ocean would a lost sailor and Bucky can't fight the waves, he just gives in. It's a little odd, he realises, that Steve seems as startled as he must look himself even though he is the one who initiated the eye contact. None of them utters a single word but Bucky waits all the same, a little dazed, and he notes in a corner of his mind the beautiful hue of blue that paints Steve's eyes. He knew that already, he thinks, he noticed the colour when he met the artist but he didn't pay much attention to the detail... Now, with nothing but those eyes in front of him, he has no other choice. Now he sees them. They're so very blue... Fuck.

"Ahem," he tries, clearing his throat with even less subtlety than Clint in front of Natasha. "You... need something?"

Steve starts when Bucky's voice cuts off the stream of his thoughts, whatever they may be, and his skin flushes as he hastily looks down, stopping on the engraved nameplate on the right side of Bucky's chest.

"No," the blond male whispers at last, "I'll be on my way. Good afternoon, Officer Barnes."

"Thanks," Bucky murmurs to the empty hall as Steve hurries to push the door open and walks out.

If he were even slightly romantic, Bucky would come to the conclusion that Steve Rogers is a dangerous man: with eyes like that, he could have the whole world at his feet in the span of an innocent blink. However, the policeman doesn't have time for romance so he definitely doesn't think of Steve's eyes any longer, nope, and he totally focuses on his steps as he goes back to his office.

He's so deep in concentration that he doesn't spot Natasha until it's too late and he almost bumps into her, but she sidesteps him with ease and smirks.

"What?" he groans, already on the defensive - fuck, it's about the coffee, right? He didn't get her one in time and now she's angry so she will...

"I hope for your sake that Rogers is clean," Natasha quips, so out of the blue that at first, Bucky doesn't understand what she's implying.

"What?" he repeats, a little more confused than irritated this time.

She tilts her head to the side with her lips pursed and her brows raised expectantly. Oops. That gleam in her eyes? He knows it well, has experimented it more often than not. So, what did he do this time to make her laugh at him? And what does it have to do with...

Oh. She probably caught them staring at each other during the... moment they shared. Oh shit, he's never going to hear the end of it, especially if she tells Clint. They'll gang up against him and all he will hear for the next two weeks (only one if he's lucky, which he isn't often) will be about his (hypothetical) crush on the artist. He can tell Nat is dying to comment on it already.

"Don't. Say. Anything," he warns her, almost growling.

She snorts but ignores him, of course, and her eyes shine as she says in delight:

"Two words, James: sexual tension. You should do something about it."

"Nat!"

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading so far! I would be super happy if you could give me some feedback :) Until next time!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm so sorry about this delayed chapter, I came back to university in September and I had a lot of work to do, as well as a sudden surge of inspiration in the Supernatural fandom. However, I'm back with this new chapter and I really, really hope that you will like it :)

  


As it turns out, pizza and vodka don't make the greatest melange, although Natasha might disagree with that. Clint and Bucky, however, regret all their life choices when they wake up that morning, sprawled over each other on the floor. In their half-drunk, half-sick haze, they still managed to leave the couch to Natasha - not because she's a lady and needs that luxury, she would kill them in a heartbeat for thinking that way, but only because her back hurt the previous day.

Ruins of their greasy supper lie all around the living-room, empty pizza boxes under the coffee table and bottles of vodka just... almost everywhere, including one loosely clenched in Clint's fist. Bucky wakes up with his friend's elbow digging in his ribs and makes a face as he realises that he was drooling in his sleep, then quickly wipes the corner of his lips on his right arm. That's gross, clearly, but none of the others is awake yet so who cares? Untangling himself from Clint's limbs doesn't go without difficulty, since the other man acts like a koala hugging a tree when asleep, but in the end, Bucky does manage to get on his feet without waking him up. He's awesome. And looks like shit, too, so he heads for his bathroom and stays under the shower spray a bit longer than necessary - and enjoys every single second of it. When he goes back to the living-room, Natasha is awake and he finds her kneeling beside Clint, running her fingers through his blond hair as she tries to wake him up.

Bucky doesn't comment on it, he knows better. Nat and Clint weren't so nice to him during their evening together, though: just as he thought they would, they made fun of him for his so-called crush on Steve Rogers. Well, he has to admit that he likes the guy: in all objectivity, he must say that he is handsome. A little thin maybe, but the cheekbones are a wonder - and he won't even get started on Steve's eyes. Now, the blond man remains a sort of mystery. Bucky doesn't know him, hasn't shared anything with the guy that wasn't related to his work but... Okay, he is intrigued. He would like to find out more about Steve, about his story, what made him fall for Brock Rumlow maybe, what made him blind to Rumlow's illegal activities. However, his curiosity doesn't mean that he wants any sort of relation with the guy. One night, though? Hell, he wouldn't say no. While Bucky isn't actively looking for a life partner or even a mere bed partner right now, that won't keep him from enjoying himself... Yet, the thought of sleeping with the tiny artist makes Bucky a little uncomfortable... After what happened with Rumlow, Steve certainly deserves some love and affection, at least more than just one night... Of course it depends on people's opinions regarding one-night stands but as far as Bucky is concerned, those don't exactly qualify as the most romantic experiences.

To top it all, the both of them are doomed (unless it is a blessing?) to meet again due to Bucky's work and even though Steve clearly expressed his interest the previous day, the policeman doesn't think that acting on this mutual desire would be a good idea. Not during the investigation, anyway. Later, though... Who knows? Once this case is over, maybe it wouldn't hurt to ask Steve out, especially since he might very well say yes. And let's be honest here, why would he deny him a date, since they were both devouring each other with their eyes the previous day? Bucky easily admits that, under any other circumstances, he would have jumped the guy right then. That thought gives way to lots of dirty ideas that he immediately banishes to the furthest corner of his mind and he decides to come back to reality.

"Coffee?" Bucky asks as he walks over to the spot where Natasha has started to shake Clint awake.

"Yeah," the other man grumbles from the floor, only half-conscious.

Bucky chuckles as he realises that his friend fell asleep with his hearing aids still on and he enters his kitchen to make the coffee, then opens the fridge to find their future breakfast but... Clearly, he didn't think this through when he suggested a night at his place. Nothing in there would make a decent meal, especially not one that could cure a hangover (not his, of course, but Clint's) so a quick stop by the bakery before going to work will prove necessary, for everyone's sake.

"Clint," Bucky yells from the kitchen, "move your ass to the bathroom before we end up late!"

"Why me and not Natasha?" the blond man complains as he tries to stand up with the help of Nat's hand.

"She takes less time than you to get ready," Bucky answers as he pours the coffee into three mugs and he grins like an idiot as he adds, "but feel free to share the shower!"

He can't see them but he clearly hears Clint's nervous laugh at his comment and he is sure that Nat is already planning his accidental death. They must think that he's an asshole... Well, he doesn't have any regret. The next time they gather for a fun evening with beer (or vodka) and pizza, he'll try to get Nat and Clint to sleep in the same bed or on the couch, both of them, and he is going to drop a box of condoms right in front of their eyes. Maybe it will give them a few ideas, that hopefully won't include killing him for unwelcome interference...

With a snort, Bucky sets the mugs on a tray, adds the milk and the sugar bowl, and goes back to the living-room where, miracle!, Clint is on his feet and awake (although he doesn't look much like it.)

"Come on, champ, drink," Bucky says as he offers him a cup, then hands a second one to Natasha.

"My saviour," Clint coos. "I love you!"

"Wrong person," Bucky laughs, pointedly looking at the redhead whose dark expression screams _murder_ while Clint plays dumb, sipping on his coffee with wide, innocent eyes, and tries to make him believe that he didn't understand that subliminal message.

It's (not) funny, how his friends feel free to annoy him about his lack of love life and his half-crush on Steve Rogers while he can't suggest the slightest affair between them without death threats. One day, he thinks, one day they'll thank him.

"So, what's for breakfast?" Clint asks with too much enthusiasm, eager to drop the topic.

"Pancakes, muffins and bear claws," Bucky starts, "at least if you get ready in time to drop by the bakery before work."

He should have said so sooner: at the prospects of pastries, Clint literally runs towards the bathroom and shouts:

"I'll be out in two minutes, get ready!"

He also leaves Bucky and Natasha on their own and the redhead is still glaring at her friend.

"You do know that I could kill you with two fingers, right?" she asks with a raised brow.

The young man is aware that she's only half-joking so he tries to soothe her with a bright smile as he answers:

"I bet you would have enough of one finger, actually. But if you did kill me, then who would hold the rings at your wedding?"

Natasha snorts and shakes her head, glancing in the direction of the bathroom to make sure that Clint hasn't come out yet, before she whispers:

"I might ask him to come with me to the theatre next week. I mean, as my date."

"Seriously?" Bucky exclaims, both surprised and glad to hear such news. "Whoa, Nat, that's great! There's progress at last!"

"Calm your tits," she immediately drowns his enthusiasm, "He hasn't said yes yet."

"As if he would say no," Bucky shots back with a roll of his eyes. "Really though, I'm happy for you. It was time you decided to do something about it."

"Maybe," Natasha merely replies, quite reluctant to openly agree with the young man.

"What made you change your mind?" he then inquires.

It has been... What, one year, one year and half maybe? Well, it's been long enough since Bucky noticed that they were both completely head over heels for each other and to be honest, he was growing kind of desperate and didn't think either of them would, one day, take the first step. The fact that Natasha is ready to do it is a small miracle in itself.

"I finally decided to listen to you, I guess," she says, shrugging as if it wasn't a big deal. "And I came to think that maybe... Maybe I'm ready to understand that knowing love might be worth risking to lose it."

A few seconds of stunned silence, on Bucky's part, follow Natasha's words. He is... happy for her, sure, and also proud as hell, on top of being surprised. For a short moment, he hesitates between letting a witty comment slip out of his mouth and just congratulating her but, hey, he's not a total asshole. He hugs her then, gentle and strong at the same time as he gathers his friends against his chest, his left arm loosely wrapped around her waist and his right across her shoulders.

"If you're going to hug me, at least do it properly," the redhead groans, grabbing hold of his left arm to put more weight on it. "I'm not going to break."

That's why he loves Natasha. She has never squirted around the topic of his prosthetic, not when he lost his arm, not when he recovered, not ever. She doesn't glance at it from the corner of her eye with an uncomfortable smile, she doesn't wonder whether she should talk about it or not, she doesn't shy away from his touch. She never has.

"I thought you didn't like women," Clint suddenly says, standing in the doorway as he comes back from the bathroom, his hair still a mess but his clothes fresh.

Based on his tone, he's clearly teasing them and doesn't see more than he should in this friendly embrace, but Bucky teases back all the same:

"I'm gay, not blind."

"Funny," Clint deadpans, before his attention switches to Natasha. "There still hot water, if you want to shower..."

"God yes," she replies, sniffing the oversized t-shirt that Bucky gave her the previous night with a telling frown. "It smells like vodka."

"Wonder why," Bucky quips as she leaves them alone. "Clint, time to clean up the mess."

Neither Bucky nor Clint consider picking up the sad remains of their evening as the nicest part of a party but at least it is easier (and faster) with the two of them joining forces - and no one threw up, which is a real blessing. Clint remembers all too well his college parties and the cleaning that came along with them; he doesn't like to dwell on that past.

Once Natasha reappears, they don't waste any more time and the three of them climb into Clint's car. Carpooling, in New York, seemed the best solution to arrive on time at the police station and using one car instead of three, when they have the same schedule, makes driving easier. Also, talking shit about the other drivers on the road is way funnier when you're not alone in your own car - Natasha has a wondrous imagination and even swears in Russian, Bucky loves it.

One detour by the bakery later, Clint kills the engine on the parking in front of the police station. They arrived slightly in advance, which means that they will be able to enjoy their breakfast in the cafeteria instead of choking themselves with their pastries behind their desks while they start their work of the day. The cafeteria, small but warm and cosy, welcomes them with a peaceful silence: save for them, it is empty. It seldom happens, since it usually bustles with activity, even out of the regular hours for breakfast or lunch... Which isn't too surprising, to be honest: with their hectic schedules, it may happen that breakfast is eaten either at four in the morning or at eleven - so, there are always people sitting and eating there, looking desperate with their cup of coffee or, on the opposite, having their meal with a satisfied smile on their face because they reached a high level of productivity that day.

Clint moans as he takes the first bite of his croissant, unable to hold it back. Bucky understands, though: they are _that_ good. They don't talk, they don't even think about annoying one another, savouring their breakfast instead, in an almost reverent silence; they don't often get to do this so they might as well enjoy this too rare opportunity. Sadly, this peaceful moment doesn't last. Fury soon appears in the doorway, all work and no fun, to greet them with his no-time-for-your-bullshit-Barnes voice.

"Romanov, Barton, Barnes..." he grunts, briefly glaring at their croissants (Bucky bets he is just jealous.) "Meet up with the team outside in ten, we're going to Rumlow's place."

He leaves the room immediately after and Clint stares at the rest of his breakfast with longing in his eyes.

"Can I pretend I didn't hear him?" he asks with a hopeful smile.

"Nope," Natasha answers, slapping Bucky's hand away as he tries to grab the bear claw she still has in front of her. "James, behave."

Like the responsible adults they are (not that often, the boys have to admit), they hurry to finish their breakfast; when they walk out of the police station, Bruce is waiting already, along with Maria and Fury, joined at the hip as always.

"Phil isn't coming?" Nat wonders aloud when she notices that Coulson, who usually never stands too far from Maria and Nick, is missing.

"The videotapes finally gave a possible match. He's looking into it," Hill explains.

Natasha nods, pleased to hear good news once in a while. However, even if someone onscreen matches a profile in their databank, it doesn't mean that this person is a) Hydra, b) the murderer. They will all keep their fingers crossed, though.

"Now that everybody has finally arrived," Fury booms with a pointed look at the three late agents even as he shows everyone a search warrant, "we may go. Here's the plan: we get in, we look around and take everything we can use - cell phone, laptop, USB keys, compromising documents, the usual - and we get out. I want a job well done and quickly so. Understood?"

All gathered agents nod before splitting up in two different police cars, Bucky taking the wheel of the second one to follow Fury through New York's streets. It's been a while since he last conducted a search like they are about to do and he feels a tiny bit excited (or, okay, a lot excited) at the thought that maybe they will find something that could actually help their investigation, not only about the identity of Rumlow's murderer but also in the Hydra file.

Usually, his feelings regarding the search of a location are milder. Of course it's part of his job but it also, sometimes, makes him feel like an intruder. It doesn't matter whether they're looking into the life of a suspect or a victim: in the end, they are still looking into the private life of people and from time to time, it gets to them. How many times did he have to see the pictures a young dad took with his kid a few weeks before he died? How many times did he face a husband, a wife, staring at him in horror when he says that their partner is a suspect in a criminal investigation and _we have to search the house, sorry but could you please move out of the way?_

Same thing happens when he has to report one's death to their family, like he did the other day to Collin and Lisa Rumlow. Nat often tells him that he's too soft for this job, that she doesn't even understand how he managed to get himself overseas, fighting other human beings. Sometimes, he himself doesn't even understand or remember why he did it but that is another debate.

Anyway, this time, it should be easier: Bucky doesn't feel any pity for Rumlow who, even dead, remains an asshole, responsible for a lot of Hydra's dirty business. He wouldn't go as far as to say that he got what he deserved, but he's not going to shed a tear either.

Following Fury's lead, Bucky drives to an apartment complex, modern and luxurious, and he suddenly wonders what Rumlow might have told Steve about his job - before the blond found out about his true activities, that is - to explain such an expensive place. Did he say that he was a surgeon? Or maybe he avoided this trouble by telling him that he'd inherited from his grandma?

With an inelegant snort that earns him a disgusted look from Natasha, Bucky parks the car and gets out, followed up close by his two friends; Clint whistles when he takes a good look at the building, his wide eyes then turning to Fury, a few steps ahead as he reads the names above the many mailboxes.

"Sir, I request an upgrade in our pay. I want to live in one of those flats."

"In your dreams, Barton. Banner, what did you say the janitor's name was?"

"Elkins, Ronald Elkins," Bruce supplies, walking up to their boss' side and pointing to a name. "He must be expecting us."

After ringing the bell that matches Elkins' name with the determination of a man that hasn't all day, Nick walks to the door, leaving Bruce in charge of announcing them when the janitor's voice resounds through the intercom. The door immediately buzzes and the team walks inside the building and into a hall where they can see the elevators and... Are those marble stairs?

They only wait for a short while before Elkins, a short bald man with a huge moustache, appears in the stairs, keys in hand.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I'm Ronald Elkins, I spoke with Mister Banner on the phone earlier..."

"That would be me," Bruce says as he takes a step forward to shake hands with the janitor. "And this is Nick Fury, our..."

"I know, I know, there's no need to introduce the great Nick Fury anymore," the cheerful man says with a chuckle and a glance towards their thundering boss. "You've done enough good work for this city... So, I believe this is Brock Rumlow's apartment that you want to see? Is he in trouble? I mean, he's such a great guy, he's..."

"He's dead," Fury groans, effectively shutting up the janitor, who suddenly looks pale. "Dead and involved in dirty business, so if you could lead us to his flat and open the door, that'd be nice."

Bucky winces at the harsh tone, feeling somewhat sorry for the poor Elkins who looked so joyful at the thought of helping the police only a few seconds ago. When it comes to drowning the excitation, Fury has the same efficiency as a cold shower.

"C... certainly," the man stutters. "This way, please..."

Seven people in an elevator, in Bucky's mind, is a lot. Apparently though, glass elevators in a luxurious building such as this one were designed to allow twenty people inside, so he'll just shut up. And laugh at Maria, who doesn't seem fond of glass windows in elevators. Still, he's relieved as well when they reach the right floor - although Maria is the first to get out of it, muhahaha.

"What the..." Elkins starts in disbelief, staring at a door wide open.

Next to it, under the bell, a small nameplate reads _Brock Rumlow_.

"Well, looks like we won't need you, in the end," Barton grumbles, his tone graver than his words.

Hydra preceded them, as it would seem. From their spot in the hallway, they clearly see the mess inside the apartment: sheets of paper scattered everywhere, a few flowerpots upturned, soil that mars the white floor-tile... And they can only see the hallway.

"How is it possible?" Elkins asks in distress as he starts worrying his moustache, "I check every floor every night and everything was in order yesterday, I..."

His eyes widen as a sudden thought crosses his mind and he whispers:

"Do you think they might... still be here?"

Six police officers drawing their guns out answer his question. Honestly though, Bucky doesn't think that they'll find Hydra (or whoever else did this, maybe Hydra's opponent?) in the apartment so the guns are a mere precaution. You never know. But leaving the door open looks suspicious and people could walk around here - Elkins, a neighbour, everyone - and thus try to interrupt, so whoever raided the place probably closed the door while they were busy inside. However, it sounds plausible that they just busted out of there, especially if they caught sight of the police cars pulling over a few minutes ago... And they took the stairs.

Maria and Natasha apparently arrive to the same conclusion and rush back to the elevator while the four other men carefully tread inside the flat, Elkins following from afar. It doesn't take much time to realise that it's empty and a glance through the large windows reveals that there is no living soul on the outskirt of the building. Maybe there is an underground parking lot?

Slipping his gun back in its holster, Bruce walks back to the door with furrowed brows while Fury faces the janitor and asks:

"Who has a key to this flat?"

"Well... Other than Mister Rumlow and myself, I don't think anyone has..."

"The door shows no sign of force having been used," Bruce informs them from the spot where he is kneeling in front of the lock. "Whoever committed this burglary had a spare key... By the way, we didn't find any on Rumlow's corpse. That might explain this... situation."

"Speaking of spare key," Elkins interferes, "I just remembered... I believe Mister Rumlow gave one to his boyfriend, a few months ago. Ah, well, ex-boyfriend, I guess. I'm not sure he still has it but..."

"When you say boyfriend," Clint butts in with a sharp look at Bucky, "are you talking about Steve Rogers?"

"Yes! How do you know... Ah, never mind. I guess you spoke to him already?"

"Indeed. Mister Elkins, what can you tell us about Steve Rogers' and Brock Rumlow's relationship?" Bucky asks, signing to Clint that he'll take it from there (after all, Fury told him to focus on Steve so he's not going to disobey - or complain.)

They carefully move to the kitchen in order to sit at the small table as Clint and Fury start the investigation, examining the documents on the floor without touching them while Bruce goes back to the car to fetch the camera, gloves and plastic bags to pack any potential evidence. He will check on Nat and Maria at the same time, even though they are certainly on their way back as well... If they had caught anyone at all, their walkie-talkies would have gone crazy already.

Bucky, on his part, begins to take notes as soon as Elkins opens his mouth:

"I'm not sure of how long those two were together," he admits, "maybe a year? At least, Mister Rumlow started to have little Steve over a little more than one year ago."

"Steve?" Bucky stresses, pointing out the fact that Elkins speaks about him by first name only, while Brock Rumlow remains _Mister Rumlow_.

"Yeah," the janitor chuckles. "He told me to call him Steve. A real nice boy, a pity he's so sick all the time. Anyway, at first I had to let him in the building since he didn't have a key and trust me, it happened a lot. Those two were all over each other, they just couldn't stay away! One day, Steve rang my doorbell to thank me for all the times I had allowed him inside and he said his boyfriend had given him a key now, so he wouldn't bother me again. He even brought me home baked pie to thank me!"

Bucky chuckles softly at that, feeling a silly smile curl up his lips. He's a fool. He doesn't know whether he should cry or laugh because, is Steve even real? He must have some dirty laundry too, it's just not possible to be so good, so _kind_. Right?

"They broke up a few months ago," Elkins adds on a sad tone. "I don't know why of course, I didn't pry into their personal life, but Mister Rumlow looked... devastated. Like his whole world had just crumpled, you know?"

Bucky nods, although breakups never made him feel like that: last time his world shattered, he had just woken up in a hospital, missing an arm.

"When did you see Steve Rogers for the last time?" he asks instead of dwelling on his memories any longer.

"Well..." the janitor says, thoughtful, "I believe it was a few months ago, before they broke up - I mean, he was all smiles and hearty eyes that day, so I guess he was still seeing Mister Rumlow. It's weird though, how it seems like their relationship soured all of a sudden... But as I said, I don't know what happened. That must be the last time I saw Steve, although I think he was there a few weeks ago... I didn't cross path with him myself but the next-door neighbour did, she thought Steve and Mister Rumlow were back together..."

Elkins trails off, expecting other questions, but Bucky remains silent. The janitor's story matches Steve's statement: the blond male did tell the policeman that he had taken back some of his stuff two or three weeks prior... Well, he didn't say that he was so friendly with the janitor but that didn't really matter.

"Bucky?" Clint calls out as he rounds the corner between the kitchen and the living-room, "Are you done?"

"I think so," the young man answers, addressing Elkins. "Thank you for your help, Mister Elkins. We'll stay for a while but you're free to go back to your usual activities, although we might need you again."

"I understand," the janitor replies as he stands up, offering his hand for Bucky to shake. "I'll be glad to help in any way I can."

Elkins slowly walks out, careful not to step into the dirt that the plant pots left in the hall, and Clint takes the chair opposite to Bucky.

"Nat and Maria got nothing," he states with a frown. "Neighbour on the left has been on a trip for three days already and neighbour on the right, insomniac little old lady, heard some banging around four o'clock this morning. Apparently, she thought Rumlow was celebrating something with his boyfriend - she told me they were loud."

Bucky winces at that, assaulted by the fleeting image of Rumlow's hands on Steve's body. He didn't need that.

"Okay, okay, enough. Found anything actually interesting?" he asks with a glare.

"Not yet, this is a real mess and we've got no way of finding out if anything's missing. Which is why Fury wants you to bring back Steve Rogers, maybe he'll help. He used to come here pretty often, right?"

Right. The world or Fury or, heck, _someone_ , must hate him: why is he the one who has to deal with the hot boy, uh? Hot boy with sad blue eyes at the mention of his deceased ex-boyfriend, moreover. Who also happened to watch him the previous day with such strong intensity that it made Bucky feel... too many sensations and emotions.

He both looks forward to seeing the man again and wants to avoid him forever at the same time. Problematic, right? Welcome to Bucky's life. He's a professional, damnit! He should not feel this uncanny attraction toward a dude he has seen twice in his life, he knows how to control himself better than that... If only Steve wasn't involved in this investigation, even as a mere witness! Dissociating private and professional life would be easier already.

"Fine," he groans. "I'll be back in fifteen."

"Take your time with him," Clint whispers with a wink - asshole! - "but don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"You wouldn't even bang a guy," Bucky shots back as he stands up. "It's so sad."

He doesn't pay much attention to Clint's mumbled reply while he makes his way outside the flat to ride the elevator down. Once he's back on the parking lot, Bucky opens the trunk to get his hands on the copy of the file that he keeps there, just in case. It includes copies of the bartenders' statements, as well as Steve's, on which he knows that he is going to find his phone number. Of course Bucky never planned on using it for personal purposes, unless he wanted to turn into a stalker of sorts, but right now, he needs to make that call. He doesn't know if Steve's home so this is the best way to find out and, maybe, pick him up somewhere.

Usually, Bucky is not fond of phone calls (especially when he gets them from someone he doesn't know, this is not the kind of surprises that he likes) because he hates not being able to see the other person's face, that usually gives him a better understanding of said person's feelings. Not like he has another choice anyway...

The phone rings a few times without any answer and Bucky is about to hang up and drive to Steve's place when the blond male's voice suddenly echoes in his ear:

"Hello?"

"S... Mister Rogers?" Bucky says, biting his lips just in time not to let Steve's first name slip (the other man doesn't need to know that in his head, the policeman is on a first name basis with him), "this is Officer Barnes speaking."

"Oh," Steve says, sounding nervous all of a sudden. "Okay. Um, what can I do for you, Officer?"

"I told you yesterday that I would maybe have to bother you again... I'm sorry it turned out to be true."

"Oh," he repeats (and for some reason, Bucky imagines him deflating), before he chuckles, "And here I thought you were going to ask me out to dinner. Well, next time maybe. Do I meet you at the police station?"

"Eh..."

Bucky doesn't reply, he can't. Steve just dropped a bomb on him and he expects him to answer as if everything was normal? Well, newsflash, he can't do that. Also, is it just him or did Steve truly sound disappointed three seconds ago, when he heard the real reason of Bucky's call? Then that means...

"Officer Barnes?"

Steve's gentle voice brings him back to reality land and the policeman snaps out of his thoughts.

"Yes, right! Um, where are you right now? I will drive you myself, since we're not at the precinct, and I'll explain everything on our way."

"I'm at work," Steve answers. "I work at the art gallery in Manhattan, near the Stark Tower, do you know it?"

Bucky nods, then remembers that Steve can't see him and thus says yes, adding in a rushed breath that he'll be there in a few minutes. He doesn't wait for the other's reply and hangs up, feeling dizzy with questions as he sits behind the wheel and starts the engine.

So... In the light of this new element, Bucky decides that it's safe to say that Steve was flirting with him the previous day. Staring at him like he did, saying that he didn't mind being Bucky's type... That definitively counts. And now would be a good time to decide if he wants to go further than flirting lightly or if he should clearly tell Steve that he wants nothing to do with him.

Which, for the record, would be a big fat lie. He likes Steve, really, and if they had met under normal circumstances, Bucky wouldn't have hesitated the slightest second. In this situation though? Steve lost his ex-boyfriend two days ago, a boyfriend he had deep feelings for even after breaking up with him, and okay, maybe he's the one who hit on Bucky but what for? One night of amazing sex? Or more? Bucky doesn't particularly wants to be the guy you fuck to get back on track, you know? Guess that is something he should specify to Steve when he asks him out... Fuck. His heart (or his dick? No, no, his heart) took the decision before his brain. Ugh.

Steve is already waiting for him when he stops the car in front of the art gallery and the man makes sure that it is Bucky driving before he comes closer and opens the door. He is wearing some old jeans that are stained with paint in lots of different places and Bucky really should not find this cute but... He does.

"Hi, Officer Barnes," Steve says, climbing inside, and Bucky flashes him a tight smile.

"Maybe you should drop the _Officer_ ," he suggests, sounding much calmer than he feels inside.

Steve's eyes widen in surprise but then he asks with a small mischievous smile:

"Should I just call you Barnes, then?"

"I was thinking of James or Bucky - nickname, short for Buchanan - but that's up to you," the policeman shrugs, hoping that his cheeks haven't reddened yet (he feels kind of warm inside, so you never know how his body could betray that.)

"Bucky sounds nice," the blond man tells him, genuine. "Call me Steve, then."

And Bucky's brains knows it's risqué, knows he should keep some boundaries between them, knows that the young artist could be using him and flirting with him so that he'll have a protector if the police gets something bad on him... But his heart doesn't care, doesn't believe that this tiny man could be anything but a sweet (and hot) artist.

"Okay, Steve," he says, savouring the name - and he earns a huge smile.

"So," the young man slowly starts when Bucky turns on the ignition, "what do you need me for this time? Got some more questions?"

"Not really," the policeman replies, chewing on his lower lip. "Listen, I warn you: this probably won't be very pleasant but... We're going to Rumlow's apartment."

"His... apartment?" Steve repeats, a little taken aback. "Why? I mean, yeah, I guess you have to search it but... Why bringing me along?"

"Do you have a key?" Bucky asks instead of answering, unwilling to give away the reasons to Steve's presence before knowing whether or not the young man possesses a spare key and thus, whether or not his team should add _Rogers_ to the list of potential culprits.

"I had one," Steve easily admits. "I gave it back to Brock when we broke up. Why do you ask?"

"Because someone got in the flat before we did and turned the place in a mess. We're not sure if anything was stolen so... Fury thought that you could help: you know the place, you should notice if anything important is missing."

Steve looks shocked for a moment and Bucky feels sorry for the guy, who seems to jump from bad news to bad news. Also, yesterday he was a suspect, today he's the police little helper (and a suspect still to some of them but hush) so... Surprise!

"That's why you asked about the key," Steve understands. "You thought I did it?"

"I didn't," Bucky answers. "Or, well, I hoped it wasn't you, at least."

"It wasn't me," Steve confirms, grumbling as he crosses his arms against his chest.

The policeman bites his lips, trying to contain his laughter. Sure, the situation isn't that funny - he shouldn't forget that he's currently working - but a grumpy Steve is cute and also, hella hard to resist. Bucky must admit he appreciates the fact that he's driving and, therefore, has to keep his eyes on the road: at least he has a good reason to focus on something else than Steve.

When they finally arrive in front of the apartment complex and walk out of the car, Bucky notices that Steve's expression looks tense, guarded. The young man briefly wonders what memories are swarming in his head before he realises that maybe he doesn't want to know.

"Will you be alright?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," Steve answers and frowns when he realises that he doesn't sound convincing at all. "I just don't know what to expect."

Bucky nods but leads him towards the front door anyway, feeling a little sorry about that - but it's the job. Maria is waiting for them by the door and lets them in, greeting Steve with a stern _Mister Rogers_ that does nothing to help him relax. The ride in the elevator qualifies as their most awkward moment so far and Bucky can't help but feel a little relieved when they eventually make it to the twenty-sixth floor, even though it is only going to get harder from then on.

Inside the apartment, it's still _Apocalypse Now_. Steve gasps at the sight and oddly enough, his first thought goes to the plants as he reaches out to turn one of the flower pots upright.

"Don't!" Bucky shouts, catching Steve's wrist just before he touches the pot. "There might be some fingerprints on that."

The blond male immediately steps back, an apologetic smile wavering on his lips.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, "It's just... Brock used to take good care of his plants so I... Yeah. Sorry, I won't do that again."

Bucky fights back a wince. He knew that sort of thing could happen, that Steve would be upset, in this situation... He suddenly realises that he is still holding on the blond male's wrist and slowly lets go, releasing him with a bashful smile when Steve stares at him. It could have been a beautiful moment, if Fury hadn't barged in the hall.

"Mister Rogers," he grumbles with his usual cheeriness. "Glad you could make it. Barnes told you what happened?"

Bucky nods, although Nick isn't looking at him but at Steve, who says yes in a small voice - and Bucky doesn't want to hug him, not at all.

"Good. Then I'll need you to take a look around and tell us if anything looks missing, anything at all, even a damn underwear, understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Steve answers, his tone slightly firmer now.

And so begins the slow search of Rumlow's apartment. Looking for something absent isn't an easy task: whenever Steve thinks that he might have noticed that an item is missing, it turns out that it is a few feet farther, hidden under a broken plate or a towel. The burglars sure know how to cover up their crime.

From time to time, Steve looks around one of the rooms with a sad little smile, probably remembering happier times with his ex-boyfriend, and every now and then he offers a light comment, probably meant to himself rather than the policemen. At some point, he has to refrain himself from picking up a book that lays open on the floor, and he says:

" _Brave new world_. Brock bought a copy when I told him that this book had inspired me to make a series of paintings; he said that way, I could work from his place too, not only mine."

Turning to Bucky, Steve adds with a strained smile:

"See? He was sweet. Not a freak, not a monster. A sweet man."

The policeman nods, ignoring Fury's frown and leading Steve into another room. They haven't searched it yet and this is the last one, but probably not the easiest one to stand in for Steve: the bedroom. Hydra or, less specifically, the burglars, were as thorough with this one as they were with the rest of the flat: the bed sheets are torn, the mattress slashed through, clothes lie scattered all over the room. Bucky risks a glance at Steve, who looks pale. For a second, he wonders what the young man might be seeing, instead of this mess: petals on the pillows, scented candles on the bedside table for a romantic evening? Breakfast in bed? Passionate sex that made the old neighbour go crazy?

Steve doesn't say anything but he does react: his eyes suddenly settle on an empty picture frame that looks like it has been thrown on the bed without the slightest care. Broken glass shines on the orange and red sheets, where the shy sun of the morning comes through the window to illuminate the bed.

"The picture is gone," Steve says.

"Are you sure?" Bucky asks in surprise.

"Positive."

"How can you be so sure? The frame might have been empty way before the burglars came in."

"It wasn't. Brock kept a picture of us on his bedside table and it was still there the last time I was here to pick up some clothes. I swear."

"Any idea why Hydra would show a sudden interest in you, then?" Fury asks calmly.

His face looks perfectly blank and Steve might not notice anything off with him but Bucky knows his boss, so he knows when something's bothering him - like right now.

"What do you mean?" the artist asks with furrowed brows. "I'm not one of them, I told agent Barnes before that I..."

"I know, I know," Nick interrupts him with a dismissing wave of his hand (and that seems to piss off Steve a little.) "But think about it: your ex-boyfriend dies, probably at the hands of Hydra or an equally criminal organisation and the following morning, his apartment gets robbed. Strangely, a picture of you disappears. To me, it seems that they might be looking for you."

Steve takes a step back, hit by the words and their consequences, and he suddenly pales. He might claim that he's not fragile or weak in spite of his frail constitution but he's also far from dumb: he's aware that he doesn't stand a chance in a fight, so if Hydra gets a hold on him... He's as good as dead meat.

"Mister Rogers," Fury calls, "I repeat my question: could Hydra be interested in you? Has Mister Rumlow ever mentioned anything about Hydra's business? Do you happen to have compromising information about them?"

"N... No!" Steve stammers. "Two months ago, I didn't even know this organisation existed! I never saw any file, I never heard about their activities, Brock never..."

The young man grows awfully quiet and his eyes widen in shock.

"What?" Bucky urges him on. "S... Mister Rogers, do you remember anything?"

"No," Steve answers, shaking his head before he raises two anxious eyes to the policeman's face. "I still don't have a clue. But... Last time I was here... Brock tried to win me back. He said... He said that he regretted, that he had made his choice and that he wanted to stay with me. He told me that he would quit Hydra... For me. I didn't believe him: I thought he was lying to me, so that I would come back to him. I didn't think that he had it in him, since he'd stayed with them for so long already, but... Now he's dead. What am I supposed to deduce?"

Great, now Steve looks scared. Bucky has a little idea of the thoughts that must go through his head at this instant: is he a target? Is he safe? Does Hydra know where he lives, where he works? The people he talks to, could they be harmed because of him? Maybe he's even wondering if Brock betrayed him, mentioned him to Hydra. The simple answer would be no: if Brock truly planned of leaving Hydra for Steve, there's no way he would have willingly endangered him. Bucky hates to say it but now it's crystal clear that Rumlow, although he remains a dick, loved Steve and didn't want to take advantage of him. He just... happened to be in a messy situation and never breathed a word about it to his boyfriend, because it was easier to lie than to face the disgust and the rejection he would inevitably read in Steve's eyes.

Now, there's also the unpleasant answer: when they found him, Rumlow's body showed signs of beatings. Bucky doesn't want to assume but they have to consider all the possibilities: if Rumlow refused to talk about Steve, maybe they made him.

"Mister Rogers," Fury says, laying a heavy hand on the artist's shoulder, like an anchor. "You take a deep breath and listen to me. My team will keep investigating and we will find out what happened to Brock Rumlow, we will figure out your role in this mess and if needed, we will protect you. For now, you're going to go back to work, not breathe a word of this to anyone and act normally. Understood?"

Steve grumbles something akin to a yes, although he doesn't look like he is ready to go back to a normal life, at least not without checking over his shoulder for his safety.

"Barnes, get Rogers back home."

"Yes, Sir," Bucky complies, secretly happy to spend some more time in Steve's company, in spite of the circumstances.

The blond male follows him through the apartment in silence, barely looking at his surroundings now, focused on the policeman's back. Scared.

As they make their way outside the flat, Bucky can still hear his teammates and he doesn't miss Natasha's question to Fury:

"Can we trust that theory? Rumlow was so in love he decided to turn his back on Hydra?"

"People would do all kinds of things for love," Clint points out - the sap.

"We will keep an eye on Rogers," Fury declares. "And also..."

Bucky can't make out the end of the sentence as they step into the hallway and head for the elevator. Steve still hasn't said a word and the police officer doesn't know whether he should try to talk to him or just let him be... If Steve wants to talk, he will, right?

He eventually does, but only when they are in the car, while Bucky turns the key and the engine comes to life with a soft purr.

"Could you drop me at the gallery instead of home?" he asks. "My bike is there, I need to get it back."

"Sure," the young man agrees. "Will you be alright?"

Steve heaves a deep sigh and closes his eyes, leaning his head and neck against the headrest.

"Honestly? I don't know. I feel like I'm in the middle of a nightmare and I can't wake up. Have you ever felt like that?"

"Oh yeah," Bucky groans, unable to keep his eyes from drifting toward his prosthetic.

Steve probably catches his stormy expression, because he doesn't ask for details. Bucky is not sure that he would have given them to the artist but who knows? Most of the time, he feels like he has made peace with what happened overseas - and he's definitely at peace with the prosthetic itself, it really... comes in handy, pun intended.

When this is all over, he wishes for Steve to wake up from the nightmare and go home, have his normal life back. Him? The nightmare will never be totally over: prosthetic or not, his arm is gone, the scars real and visible. Nothing is going to change that fact.

When Bucky stops the car in front of the gallery, Steve doesn't immediately walk out; he looks a little lost, confused even, and still a bit scared.

"Hey," the policeman says softly. "Steve?"

The blond man blinks and slowly lifts his head, coming back from wherever his mind was wandering and to reality.

"What?" he asks in a whisper.

"I know this is not the best timing ever," Bucky starts, "but I want you to know... If the circumstances were any different, I would have asked you out. Do you... Do you think you would allow me to ask again when this is over?"

Steve lets out a breathy sound of surprise as he hears the words, so unexpected in this situation. For a second, Bucky fears that it was too soon and that the blond male is going to storm out of the car and never look back at him. However, a bashful smile makes itself visible on Steve's lips and the young man whispers:

"I do. And I even think that when you ask, I'm going to say yes."

The policeman chuckles in relief, closing his eyes for a short moment, then he grabs a pen and a crumpled piece of paper in the pocket of his pants, trying to flatten it to the best of his abilities before he jots down his phone number.

"Here," he tells Steve as he hands him the note. "Just in case... Whether you need Bucky or Officer Barnes, call me."

They don't need words to understand the meaning behind Bucky's curious choice of phrasing. Carefully folding the note and slipping it inside his wallet, Steve still looks pale but at least, he also seems less scared now that he has a way to call for help if anything were to happen. This number is going on speed dial one as soon as he has a minute to himself.

Steve rests his hand atop Bucky's right one for a second, revelling in its warmth before he lets go and opens the passenger door, still staring at the policeman.

"Thank you," he whispers with genuine gratitude in his tone.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, don't forget to drop a comment and share your thoughts with me, it will make my day. Thank you!
> 
> Oh, and as an aside, _Brave new world_ is a book written in 1931 and published in 1932 by Aldous Huxley. Worth the read ;)


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